A String of Blue Beads
富尔顿·奥斯勒 / Fulton Oursler
Pete Richard was the loneliest man in town. On the day Jean Grace opened the door of his shop. It’s a small shop which had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things： bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War， gold rings and silver boxes， images of jade and ivory， porcelain figurines. On this winter’s afternoon a child was standing there， her forehead against the glass， earnest and enormous eyes studying each treasure as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.
The shadowy interior of Pete Richard’s establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets， dueling pistols， clocks and lamps， and the floor was heaped with irons， mandolins and things hard to find a name for. Behind the counter stood Pete himself， a man not more than thirty but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.
“Mister，” she began， “would you please let me look at the string of blue beads in the window？” Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her. “They’re just perfect，” said the child， entirely to herself. “Will you wrap them up pretty for me， please？”
Pete studied her with a stony air. “Are you buying these for someone？” “They’re for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see， this will be the first Christmas since Mother died. I’ve been looking for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister.”
“How much money do you have？” asked Pete warily. She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter. “I emptied my bank.” she explained simply.