"Not so bad," thought he. "It is a pity that I have already more than enough of such trash, as you can see for yourself if you will look at those shelves. I will take it, however, on account of my regard for you and your mother, if you don't set your mark too high."
"Only give me," begged Ernest, "the fourth part of what it first cost."
"And what was that?"
"Six florins, Mr. Hoss."
"You are sharp indeed, young master! Six florins in these hard times! Such are our young people now-a-days," grumbled the old man.
"Only look at the beautiful pictures, so skilfully and clearly engraved; I am sure it would bring you double and treble the price you give for it."
"What do you know of all this, Master Studious? I will give you three florins and not a penny more, and this only out of pure kindness."
"If you have that, give me more," earnestly pleaded the young man; "think of my mother's sickness and our poverty."
"Is it my fault that your mother is poor and sick?" sneered the miser; "why have you not made yourself rich if poverty is so disagreeable to you? Take your book, or the three florins, whichever you please. Master Studious; only be quick, for I have something else to do beside listening to your whining."
It was as if a two-edged sword had pierced the heart of the deeply distressed young man. He suddenly seized the book; then he thought of his sick mother, and their extreme need at home, and he strongly checked the rising words of his just anger. "Take the book, then," he said, with a look and tone in which the indignation of his deeply wounded spirit spoke forth—"take it, but you have not dealt with me as a Christian should deal with a Christian; may God be more merciful to you in your dying hour than you are now to me." And with these words he hastened from the shop, and he heard a scornful laugh behind him.