My head, which had drooped before, rose again; but the rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me.
“I have called to pay your little bill,” said my father, entering the shop of one of those fancy stationers common in country towns, and who sell all kinds of pretty toys and nicknacks. “And by the way,” he added, as the smiling shopman looked over his books for the entry, “I think my little boy here can show you a much handsomer specimen of French workmanship than that work-box which you enticed Mrs Caxton into raffling for, last winter. Show your domino-box, my dear.”
I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal in his commendations. “It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing is worth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young gentleman gets tired of his plaything, what will you give him for it?”
“Why, sir,” said the shopman, “I fear we could not afford to give more than eighteen shillings for it, unless the young gentleman took some of these pretty things in exchange.”
“Eighteen shillings!” said my father; “you would give that. Well, my boy, whenever you do grow tired of your box, you have my leave to sell it.”
My father paid his bill, and went out. I lingered behind a few moments, and joined him at the end of the street.
“Papa, papa!” I cried, clapping my hands, “we can buy the geranium—we can buy the flower-pot.” And I pulled a handful of silver from my pockets.
“Did I not say right?” said my father, passing his handkerchief over his eyes—“You have found the two fairies!”
Oh! how proud, how overjoyed I was, when, after placing vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the gown, and made her follow me to the spot.
“It is his doing, and his money!” said my father; “good actions have mended the bad.”