"Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is
something still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable,
because this is what did really once belong to him, which the
court-plaister never did."
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end
of an old pencil,--the part without any lead.
"This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember
one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget
exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before
_that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book;
it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him
something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down;
but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he
soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another,
and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept
my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never
parted with it again from that moment."
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