"I'd rather have their very selves," she said with a laugh. She studied one carefully; and suddenly she dropped them with a cry and sprang to her feet. Her face had gone white.
"Mr. Levy!" she cried. "Oh, Mr. Levy! You put them there!"
I told her a lie right out; and I'm not ashamed of it. I was a hard man of business, I said; and a Jew; and she was a silly sentimental child, or she'd never take such an idea into her head; and she needn't suppose I kept my shop for charity, and she'd know better when she was older. She heard me out. Then she put her hand on my shoulder.
"Dear kind friend," she said, "father died in May this year. The note that I looked at was dated in June!" And I stood and stared at her like a fool. I suppose I looked a bit cut up, for she stroked my arm gently.
"You dear, good fellow!" she said. She seemed to have grown from a child into a woman in a few minutes. "I can't take them, but it will help me to be a better girl, to have known someone like you!"
"Like me!" I said, and laughed. "I'm just—just a rough, money-grubbing Jew. That's all I am."
She shook her head like mad.
"You may say what you like," she told me; "but you can't alter what I think. You're good—good—good!"
Then I told her just what had happened.
"So, you see, you owe me nothing," I wound up.