I made the handle of the spoon
with my own nose, ha! ha!" And the shadow-hand caressed the shadow-tip
of the shadow-nose, before the shadow-tongue resumed.
"The old miser saw me: he would not taste the gruel that night,
although his nurse coaxed and scolded till they were both weary. She
pretended to taste it herself, and to think it very good; but at last
retired into a corner, and after making as if she were eating it, took
good care to pour it all out into the ashes."
"But she must either succeed, or starve him, at last," interposed a
Shadow.
"I will tell you."
"And," interposed a third, "he was not worth saving."
"He might repent," suggested another who was more benevolent.
"No chance of that," returned the former. "Misers never do. The love of
money has less in it to cure itself than any other wickedness into
which wretched men can fall. What a mercy it is to be born a Shadow!
Wickedness does not stick to us. What do we care for gold!--Rubbish!"
"Amen! Amen! Amen!" came from a hundred shadow-voices.
"You should have let her murder him, and so you would have been quit of
him."
"And besides, how was he to escape at last? He could never get rid of
her, you know."
"I was going to tell you," resumed the narrator, "only you had so many
shadow-remarks to make, that you would not let me."
"Go on; go on."
"There was a little grandchild who used to come and see him
sometimes--the only creature the miser cared for.
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