Just then, what should the children espy, but a nice firm deal box, containing a little saw, a little plane, a hammer, a gimlet, a chisel, and sundry different sizes of nails. Was there ever anything so delightful, especially to David, who loved nothing so well as running after George Bowles the carpenter, and handling his tools. What was the price of them? Just ten shillings and sixpence. They were very cheap, the woman of the toy-shop said. They had been ordered by an old lady at her grandson’s entreaty; but afterwards a misgiving had seized her that the young gentleman would cut his fingers, and she would not take them. “Miss Fosbrook,” whispered David, “may I give back the knife? then I could buy it.” “You have bought and paid for it,” said Christabel. “Somebody else will buy the box,” said David wistfully. Miss Fosbrook, within herself, thought this unlikely, for nobody went to Bonchamp for costly shopping; and she saw that the woman would gladly have had the knife back, if she could have sold the tool-box, which, even at this reduced price, was much too dear for the little boys who frequented the shop. “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. Miss Fosbrook thought the same, when she saw how hard the trial was to the little boy; but she hoped she was taking the kindest course, as she said, “Now, David, in nine days time, if you are good, you will have had another sixpence. I see no chance of the tools being sold; or if they are, I could send for such a box from London. By that time, perhaps, something will have happened to show who sent the money, and why.”