The child was sent for—a little, frank, bold-looking boy, of eight years old.
"So, my fine fellow," said Mr. Harvey, "you sold your grandfather's penknife?"
Poor James had been very unhappy about this knife, and, on hearing the stranger's question, naturally concluded his grandfather had sent him; he therefore only replied by a violent burst of tears.
"Should you like to get the knife again?"
The boy's face cleared up instantly, and he rushed out of the room; but speedily returned with a wooden box, having a small slit in the top, ingeniously contrived for the admission though not for the egress of money. He rattled its contents.
"All my own, sir; all I have saved for Christmas. I will give it all to the man, if he will let me have my poor grandfather's knife back."
"What man?" asked the barrister.
"Oh, the gipsy: he gave me a string of birds’ eggs for it."
"Should you know the man now?"
"Oh, yes," said the boy; "he was so tall and black-looking."
"Well, if you will come with me, I think we may get your knife again."
The child looked wistfully at his father.
"May I go?" Of course permission was given. The farmer said he would accompany them; and a few minutes saw them driving at full speed back to the town.
