Gracie and her Father.
MY STORY.
MANY years ago, when the sky was as clear, the flowers as fragrant, and the birds as musical as now, I stood by a little mahogany table, with pencil and paper in hand, vainly trying to add a short column of figures. My small tin box, with the word Bank in large letters upon it, had just been opened, and the carefully hoarded treasure of six months was spread out before me. Scrip had not come into use then; and there were one tiny gold piece, two silver dollars, and many quarters, dimes, half-dimes, and pennies. For a full half hour I had been counting my fingers and trying to reckon up how much it all amounted to; but the problem was too hard for me. At last I took pencil and paper, and sought to work it out by figures.
“What are you doing, Gracie?” pleasantly inquired my father, entering the room with an open letter in his hand.
“O, papa! is that you?” I cried, eagerly turning towards him. “Just look—see how much money I’ve got! John has just opened my bank. It is six months to-day since I began to save, and I’ve more than I expected.”
“Yes, you are quite rich.”
“So much that I can’t even count it. I’ve done harder sums in addition at school; but somehow, now, every time I add, I get a different answer. I can’t make it come out twice alike.”