7A Tom Seven Years Old.

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went one way, and he went another. He.
walked just where he liked, and stopped when
he liked, and looked at the things he liked.
It was very nice to feel that he had a purse
of money in his pocket, and had only to lay
some of it down, and carry away whatever he
wanted. But the longer he stayed, and the
more he saw, the less he could make up his
mind what to take. He remembered it was
not himself he had to please, but Richard and
the gardener. There were some dear little
penwipers, which had red woolly dogs on the
top of them, with black bead eyes—they were
very nice—and he knew the gardener was
fond of dogs, because he had three tiny pup-
pies of his own. Then there were lovely
round glass letter-weights, with pictures of
London inside them. He fancied Richard
might like one of these, but still he could not
be certain. At last his aunt came up to him.
“Well, Tom,” said she, “have you found
what you want? I’m sure I’ve given you
time enough. Are you tired of waiting ?”
“No,” said Tom; “I'm not tired of waiting,