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, and to think it very good; and at last retired
into a corner, and made as if she were eating it herself; but I saw that
she took good care to pour it all out.'
"'But she must either succeed, or starve him, at last.'
"'I will tell you.'
"'But,' interposed another, 'he was not worth saving.'
"'He might repent,' said another more benevolent Shadow.
"'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 have had done with him.'
"'And besides, how was he to escape at last? He could never get rid of
her--could he?'
"'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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