"I could not buy _you_, for instance! Your mother wouldn't sell you!" The child laughed.
"Oh, no! But I didn't mean me!" "I know you didn't mean me!" and Helmsley smiled.

"But suppose some one put a thousand golden sovereigns in a bag on one side, and you in your rough little torn clothes on the other, and asked your mother which she would like best to have--what do you think she would say ?" "She'd 'ave _me_!" and a smile of confident satisfaction beamed on the grinning little face like a ray of sunshine.
"Of course she would! The bag of sovereigns would be no use at all compared to you.

So you see we cannot buy everything with money." "But--most things ?" queried the boy--"Eh ?" "Most things--perhaps," Helmsley answered, with a slight sigh.

"But those 'most things' are not things of much value even when you get them.
You can never buy love,--and that is the only real treasure,--the treasure of Heaven!" The child looked at him, vaguely impressed by his sudden earnestness, but scarcely understanding his words.
"Wouldn't _you_ like a little money ?" And the inquisitive young eyes fixed themselves on his face with an expression of tenderest pity.
"You'se a very poor old man!" Helmsley laughed, and again patted the little curly head.
"Yes--yes--a very poor old man!" he repeated.

"But I don't want any more than I've got!" One afternoon towards mid-May, a strong yet soft sou'wester gale blew across Weircombe, bringing with it light showers of rain, which, as they fell upon the flowering plants and trees, brought out all the perfume of the spring in such rich waves of sweetness, that, though as yet there were no roses, and the lilac was only just budding out, the whole countryside seemed full of the promised fragrance of the blossoms that were yet to be.