"Well, they re not real jewels after all, then," said the Doctor, drawing a long sigh. "I did hope they 'd turn out to be a fortune for somebody. But I don't care to dabble with the amateur collectors the Professor talks about. I 've had one such man on my farm already after bird tracks. I never made anything out of him. You can have all my share, boys; but I think you 'd better send some of the very handsomest specimens to the college, don't you? Those little fellows we put in the letter were n't anything. If the British Museum has got one five-thousand dollar specimen, 't aint anyways likely they want another. It 's easy enough, though, to 'value' a thing at five thousand dollars, when a grand Mogul of the Burmese Empire's given it to you for nothing. I can set one of these big quartz rocks with the green crystals in it up on my mantelpiece and 'value' it at five thousand dollars, too, any day."
We were crestfallen and disappointed; but the romance remained, though the hopes of pecuniary gain had departed. There was something in the very word tourmalines, Jim said, which went far to reconcile him to their not being rubies, and we felt somehow linked to the past century, to the French Academy, and to the Russian Empire,—we boys in the heart of Maine who could amuse ourselves of an evening with handfuls of gems such as savants had vainly desired to possess and Empresses had worn.
