"Come away now, my dear," she said decidedly. "No, another time,
thank you."
David was as nearly crying as ever he was, as he was forced to follow
her out of the shop. Those tools were so charming; his fingers
tingled to be hammering, sawing, boring holes. Had he lost the
chance for that poor blunt knife? Must he wait a whole fortnight for
another sixpence, and find the delicious tool-chest gone?
"Dear Davie, I am very sorry," said Christabel when they were in the
street.
"That nasty knife!" cried David.
"It is not the knife, Davie," said she; "but that I want to think--I
want you to think--why these ten shillings must have been sent."
"Because we lost the money for the pig," said David. "But Kattern
Hill fair is over, and I don't want a pig now; I do want the gimlet
to make holes--"
"Yes, David; but you know what was saved for the pig came from all of
you; you would have had no right to spend it on anything else, unless
they all had consented."
"This is my very own," said David; "it was sent to me--myself--me."
"So it seems now; but just suppose you were to have a letter to say
that someone--poor Hal himself, perhaps--or Papa--had sent ten
shillings to make up the money for the pig, and directed it to you
because you cared so much, would it not be a shame to have spent the
money upon yourself?"
"Then they should not have sent it without saying," said David.
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