I.

In one or two of the papers already written for you, I have spoken of

"Lawyer Cockermuth," as he was usually styled by his fellow-townspeople

at Worcester. I am now going to tell of something that happened in his

family; that actually did happen, and is no invention of mine.

Lawyer Cockermuth's house stood in the Foregate Street. He had practised

in it for a good many years; he had never married, and his sister lived

with him. She had been christened Betty; it was a more common name in

those days than it is in these. There was a younger brother named

Charles. They were tall, wiry men with long arms and legs. John, the

lawyer, had a smiling, homely face; Charles was handsome, but given to

be choleric.

Charles had served in the militia once, and had been ever since called

Captain Cockermuth. When only twenty-one he married a young lady with

a good bit of money; he had also a small income of his own; so he

abandoned the law, to which he had been bred, and lived as a gentleman

in a pretty little house on the outskirts of Worcester. His wife died

in the course of a few years, leaving him with one child, a son, named

Philip. The interest of Mrs. Charles Cockermuth's money would be

enjoyed by her husband until his death, and then would go to Philip.

When Philip left school he was articled to his uncle, Lawyer Cockermuth,

and took up his abode with him. Captain Cockermuth (who was of a

restless disposition, and fond of roving), gave up his house then and

went travelling about. Philip Cockermuth was a very nice steady young

fellow, and his father was liberal to him in the way of pocket-money,

allowing him a guinea a-week. Every Monday morning Lawyer Cockermuth

handed (for his brother) to Philip a guinea in gold; the coin being in

use then. Philip spent most of this in books, but he saved some of it;

and by the time he was of age he had sixty golden guineas put aside in a

small round black box of carved ebony. "What are you going to do with

it, Philip?" asked Miss Cockermuth, as he brought it down from his room

to show her. "I don't know what yet, Aunt Betty," said Philip, laughing.

"I call it my nest-egg."

He carried the little black box (the sixty guineas quite filled it),

back to his chamber and put it back into one of the pigeon-holes of the

old-fashioned bureau which stood in the room, where he always kept it,

and left it there, the bureau locked as usual. After that time, Philip

put his spare money, now increased by a salary, into the Old Bank; and

it chanced that he did not again look at the ebony box of gold, never

supposing but that it was safe in its hiding-place. On the occasion of

his marriage some years later, he laughingly remarked to Aunt Betty that

he must now take his box of guineas into use; and he went up to fetch

it. The box was not there.

Consternation ensued. The family flocked upstairs; the lawyer, Miss

Betty, and the captain--who had come to Worcester for the wedding,

and was staying in the house--one and all put their hands into the

deep, dark pigeon-holes, but failed to find the box. The captain, a

hot-tempered man, flew into a passion and swore over it; Miss Betty shed

tears; Lawyer Cockermuth, always cool and genial, shrugged his shoulders

and absolutely joked. None of them could form the slightest notion as to

how the box had gone or who was likely to have taken it, and it had to

be given up as a bad job.

Philip was married the next day, and left his uncle's house for good,

having taken one out Barbourne way. Captain Cockermuth felt very sore

about the loss of the box, he strode about Worcester talking of it, and

swearing that he would send the thief to Botany Bay if he could find

him.

A few years more yet, and poor Philip became ill. Ill of the disorder

which had carried off his mother--decline. When Captain Cockermuth heard

that his son was lying sick, he being (as usual) on his travels, he

hastened to Worcester and took up his abode at his brother's--always his

home on these visits. The disease was making very quick progress indeed;

it was what is called "rapid decline." The captain called in all the

famed doctors of the town--if they had not been called before: but there

was no hope.

The day before Philip died, his father spoke to him about the box of

guineas. It had always seemed to the captain that Philip must have, or

ought to have, _some_ notion of how it went. And he put the question to

him again, solemnly, for the last time.

"Father," said the dying man--who retained all his faculties and his

speech to the very end--"I declare to you that I have none. I have never

been able to set up any idea at all upon the loss, or attach suspicion

to a soul, living or dead. The two maids were honest; they would not

have touched it; the clerks had no opportunity of going upstairs. I had

always kept the key safely, and you know that we found the lock of the

bureau had not been tampered with."

Poor Philip died. His widow and four children went to live at a pretty

cottage on Malvern Link--upon a hundred pounds a-year, supplied to her

by her father-in-law. Mr. Cockermuth added the best part of another

hundred. These matters settled, Captain Cockermuth set off on his

rovings again, considering himself hardly used by Fate at having his

limited income docked of nearly half its value. And yet some more years

passed on.

This much has been by way of introduction to what has to come. It was

best to give it.

Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson, our neighbours at Dyke Manor, had a whole colony

of nephews, what with brothers' sons and sisters' sons; of nieces also;

batches of them would come over in relays to stay at Elm Farm, which had

no children of its own. Samson Dene was the favourite nephew of all; his

mother was sister to Mr. Jacobson, his father was dead. Samson Reginald

Dene he was christened, but most people called him "Sam." He had been

articled to the gentleman who took to his father's practice; a lawyer in

a village in Oxfordshire. Later, he had gone to a firm in London for a

year, had passed, and then came down to his uncle at Elm Farm, asking

what he was to do next. For, upon his brother-in-law's death, Mr.

Jacobson had taken upon himself the expenses of Sam, the eldest son.

"Want to know what you are to do now, eh?" cried old Jacobson, who

was smoking his evening pipe by the wide fire of the dark-wainscoted,

handsome dining-parlour, one evening in February. He was a tall, portly

man with a fresh-coloured, healthy face; and not, I dare say, far off

sixty years old. "What would you like to do?--what is your own opinion

upon it, Sam?"

"I should like to set up in practice for myself, uncle."

"Oh, indeed! In what quarter of the globe, pray?"

"In Worcester. I have always wished to practise at Worcester. It is the

assize town: I don't care for pettifogging places: one can't get on in

them."

"You'd like to emerge all at once into a full-blown lawyer there? That's

your notion, is it, Sam?"

Sam made no answer. He knew by the tone his notion was being laughed at.

"No, my lad. When you have been in some good office for another year or

two maybe, then you might think about setting-up. The office can be in

Worcester if you like."

"I am hard upon twenty-three, Uncle Jacobson. I have as much knowledge

of law as I need."

"And as much steadiness also, perhaps?" said old Jacobson.

Sam turned as red as the table-cover. He was a frank-looking, slender

young fellow of middle height, with fine wavy hair almost a gold colour

and worn of a decent length. The present fashion--to be cropped as if

you were a prison-bird and to pretend to like it so--was not favoured

by gentlemen in those days.

"You may have been acquiring a knowledge of law in London, Sam; I hope

you have; but you've been kicking up your heels over it. What about

those sums of money you've more than once got out of your mother?"

Sam's face was a deeper red than the cloth now. "Did she tell you of it,

uncle?" he gasped.

"No, she didn't; she cares too much for her graceless son to betray him.

I chanced to hear of it, though."

"One has to spend so much in London," murmured Sam, in lame apology.

"I dare say! In my past days, sir, a young man had to cut his coat

according to his cloth. We didn't rush into all kinds of random games

and then go to our fathers or mothers to help us out of them. Which is

what you've been doing, my gentleman."

"Does aunt know?" burst out Sam in a fright, as a step was heard on the

stairs.

"I've not told her," said Mr. Jacobson, listening--"she is gone on into

the kitchen. How much is it that you've left owing in London, Sam?"

Sam nearly choked. He did not perceive this was just a random shot: he

was wondering whether magic had been at work.

"Left owing in London?" stammered he.

"That's what I asked. How much? And I mean to know. 'Twon't be of any

use your fencing about the bush. Come! tell it in a lump."

"Fifty pounds would cover it all, sir," said Sam, driven by desperation

into the avowal.

"I want the truth, Sam."

"That is the truth, uncle, I put it all down in a list before leaving

London; it comes to just under fifty pounds."

"How could you be so wicked as to contract it?"

"There has not been much wickedness about it," said Sam, miserably,

"indeed there hasn't. One gets drawn into expenses unconsciously in the

most extraordinary manner up in London. Uncle Jacobson, you may believe

me or not, when I say that until I added it up, I did not think it

amounted to twenty pounds in all."

"And then you found it to be fifty! How do you propose to pay this?"

"I intend to send it up by instalments, as I can."

"Instead of doing which, you'll get into deeper debt at Worcester. If

it's Worcester you go to."

"I hope not, uncle. I shall do my best to keep out of debt. I mean to be

steady."

Mr. Jacobson filled a fresh pipe, and lighted it with a spill from the

mantelpiece. He did not doubt the young fellow's intentions; he only

doubted his resolution.

"You shall go into some lawyer's office in Worcester for two years, Sam,

when we shall see how things turn out," said he presently. "And, look

here, I'll pay these debts of yours myself, provided you promise me not

to get into trouble again. There, no more"--interrupting Sam's grateful

looks--"your aunt's coming in."

Sam opened the door for Mrs. Jacobson. A little pleasant-faced woman in

a white net cap, with small flat silver curls under it. She carried a

small basket lined with blue silk, in which lay her knitting.

"I've been looking to your room, my dear, to see that all's comfortable

for you," she said to Sam, as she sat down by the table and the candles.

"That new housemaid of ours is not altogether to be trusted. I suppose

you've been telling your uncle all about the wonders of London?"

"And something else, too," put in old Jacobson gruffly. "He wanted to

set up in practice for himself at Worcester: off-hand, red-hot!"

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Jacobson.

"That's what the boy wanted, nothing less. No. Another year or two's

work in some good house, to acquire stability and experience, and then

he may talk about setting up. It will be all for the best, Sam; trust

me."

"Well, uncle, perhaps it will." It was of no use for him to say perhaps

it won't: he could not help himself. But it was a disappointment.

Mr. Jacobson walked over to Dyke Manor the next day, to consult the

Squire as to the best lawyer to place Sam with, himself suggesting their

old friend Cockermuth. He described all Sam's wild ways (it was how he

put it) in that dreadful place, London, and the money he had got out of

amidst its snares. The Squire took up the matter with his usual hearty

sympathy, and quite agreed that no practitioner in the law could be so

good for Sam as John Cockermuth.

John Cockermuth proved to be agreeable. He was getting to be an elderly

man then, but was active as ever, saving when a fit of the gout took

him. He received young Dene in his usual cheery manner, upon the day

appointed for his entrance, and assigned him his place in the office

next to Mr. Parslet. Parslet had been there more than twenty years; he

was, so to say, at the top and tail of all the work that went on in it,

but he was not a qualified solicitor. Samson Dene was qualified, and

could therefore represent Mr. Cockermuth before the magistrates and what

not: of which the old lawyer expected to find the benefit.

"Where are you going to live?" he questioned of Sam that first morning.

"I don't know yet, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson are about the town now, I

believe, looking for lodgings for me. Of course they couldn't let _me_

look; they'd think I should be taken in," added Sam.

"Taken in and done for," laughed the lawyer. "I should not wonder but

Mr. Parslet could accommodate you. Can you, Parslet?"

Mr. Parslet looked up from his desk, his thin cheeks flushing. He was

small and slight, with weak brown hair, and had a patient, sad sort of

look in his face and in his meek, dark eyes.

James Parslet was one of those men who are said to spoil their own

lives. Left alone early, he was looked after by a bachelor uncle, a

minor canon of the cathedral, who perhaps tried to do his duty by him in

a mild sort of manner. But young Parslet liked to go his own ways, and

they were not very good ways. He did not stay at any calling he was put

to, trying first one and then another; either the people got tired of

him, or he of them. Money (when he got any) burnt a hole in his pocket,

and his coats grew shabby and his boots dirty. "Poor Jamie Parslet! how

he has spoilt his life" cried the town, shaking its pitying head at him:

and thus things went on till he grew to be nearly thirty years of age.

Then, to the public astonishment, Jamie pulled up. He got taken on by

Lawyer Cockermuth as copying clerk at twenty shillings a-week, married,

and became as steady as Old Time. He had been nothing but steady from

that day to this, had forty shillings a-week now, instead of twenty,

and was ever a meek, subdued man, as if he carried about with him a

perpetual repentance for the past, regret for the life that might have

been. He lived in Edgar Street, which is close to the cathedral, as

every one knows, Edgar Tower being at the top of it. An old gentleman

attached to the cathedral had now lodged in his house for ten years,

occupying the drawing-room floor; he had recently died, and hence Lawyer

Cockermuth's suggestion.

Mr. Parslet looked up. "I should be happy to, sir," he said; "if our

rooms suited Mr. Dene. Perhaps he would like to look at them?"

"I will," said Sam. "If my uncle and aunt do not fix on any for me."

Is there any subtle mesmeric power, I wonder, that influences things

unconsciously? Curious to say, at this very moment Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson

were looking at these identical rooms. They had driven into Worcester

with Sam very early indeed, so as to have a long day before them, and

when breakfast was over at the inn, took the opportunity, which they

very rarely got, of slipping into the cathedral to hear the beautiful

ten-o'clock service. Coming out the cloister way when it was over, and

so down Edgar Street, Mrs. Jacobson espied a card in a window with

"Lodgings" on it. "I wonder if they would suit Sam?" she cried to her

husband. "Edgar Street is a nice, wide, open street, and quiet. Suppose

we look at them?"

A young servant-maid, called by her mistress "Sally," answered the

knock. Mrs. Parslet, a capable, bustling woman of ready speech and good

manners, came out of the parlour, and took the visitors to the floor

above. They liked the rooms and they liked Mrs. Parslet; they also liked

the moderate rent asked, for respectable country people in those days

did not live by shaving one another; and when it came out that the

house's master had been clerk to Lawyer Cockermuth for twenty years,

they settled the matter off-hand, without the ceremony of consulting

Sam. Mrs. Jacobson looked upon Sam as a boy still. Mr. Jacobson might

have done the same but for the debts made in London.

And all this, you will say, has been yet more explanation; but I could

not help it. The real thing begins now, with Sam Dene's sojourn in Mr.

Cockermuth's office, and his residence in Edgar Street.

The first Sunday of his stay there, Sam went out to attend the morning

service in the cathedral, congratulating himself that that grand edifice

stood so conveniently near, and looking, it must be confessed, a bit of

a dandy, for he had put a little bunch of spring violets into his coat,

and "button-holes" were quite out of the common way then. The service

began with the Litany, the earlier service of prayers being held at

eight o'clock. Sam Dene has not yet forgotten that day, for it is no

imaginary person I am telling you of, and never will forget it. The

Reverend Allen Wheeler chanted, and the prebendary in residence (Somers

Cocks) preached. While wondering when the sermon (a very good one) would

be over, and thinking it rather prosy, after the custom of young men,

Sam's roving gaze was drawn to a young lady sitting in the long seat

opposite to him on the other side of the choir, whose whole attention

appeared to be given to the preacher, to whom her head was turned. It is

a nice face, thought Sam; such a sweet expression in it. It really was a

nice face, rather pretty, gentle and thoughtful, a patient look in the

dark brown eyes. She had on a well-worn dark silk, and a straw bonnet;

all very quiet and plain; but she looked very much of a lady. Wonder if

she sits there always? thought Sam.

Service over, he went home, and was about to turn the handle of the door

to enter (looking another way) when he found it turned for him by some

one who was behind and had stretched out a hand to do it. Turning

quickly, he saw the same young lady.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Sam, all at sea; "did you wish to come in

here?"

"If you please," she answered--and her voice was sweet and her manner

modest.

"Oh," repeated Sam, rather taken aback at the answer. "You did not want

me, did you?"

"Thank you, it is my home," she said.

"Your home?" stammered Sam, for he had not seen the ghost of any one in

the house yet, saving his landlord and landlady and Sally. "Here?"

"Yes. I am Maria Parslet."

He stood back to let her enter; a slender, gentle girl of middle height;

she looked about eighteen, Sam thought (she was that and two years on to

it), and he wondered where she had been hidden. He had to go out again,

for he was invited to dine at Lawyer Cockermuth's, so he saw no more of

the young lady that day; but she kept dancing about in his memory. And

somehow she so fixed herself in it, and as the time went on so grew

in it, and at last so filled it, that Sam may well hold that day as a

marked day--the one that introduced him to Maria Parslet. But that is

anticipating.

On the Monday morning all his ears and eyes were alert, listening and

looking for Maria. He did not see her; he did not hear a sound of her.

By degrees he got to learn that the young lady was resident teacher in a

lady's school hard by; and that she was often allowed to spend the whole

day at home on Sundays. One Sunday evening he ingeniously got himself

invited to take tea in Mrs. Parslet's parlour, and thus became

acquainted with Maria; but his opportunities for meeting her were rare.

There's not much to tell of the first twelvemonth. It passed in due

course. Sam Dene was fairly steady. He made a few debts, as some young

men, left to themselves, can't help making--at least, they'd tell you

they can't. Sundry friends of Sam's in Worcester knew of this, and

somehow it reached Mr. Cockermuth's ears, who gave Sam a word of advice

privately.

This was just as the first year expired. According to agreement, Sam had

another year to stay. He entered upon it with inward gloom. On adding up

his scores, which he deemed it as well to do after his master's lecture,

he again found that they amounted to far more than he had thought for,

and how he should contrive to pay them out of his own resources he knew

no more than the man in the moon. In short, he could not do it; he was

in a fix; and lived in perpetual dread of its coming to the ears of his

uncle Jacobson.

* * * * *

The spring assize, taking place early in March, was just over; the

judges had left the town for Stafford, and Worcester was settling down

again to quietness. Miss Cockermuth gave herself and her two handmaidens

a week's rest--assize time being always a busy and bustling period

at the lawyer's, no end of chance company looking in--and then the

house began its spring cleaning, a grand institution with our good

grandmothers, often lasting a couple of weeks. This time, at the

lawyer's house, it was to be a double bustle; for visitors were being

prepared for.

It had pleased Captain Cockermuth to write word that he should be at

home for Easter; upon which, the lawyer and his sister decided to invite

Philip's widow and her children also to spend it with them; they knew

Charles would be pleased. Easter-Day was very early indeed that year,

falling at the end of March.

To make clearer what's coming, the house had better have a word or two

of description. You entered from the street into a wide passage; no

steps. On the left was the parlour and general sitting-room, in which

all meals were usually taken. It was a long, low room, its two rather

narrow windows looking upon the street, the back of the room being a

little dark. Opposite the door was the fireplace. On the other side the

passage, facing the parlour-door, was the door that opened to the two

rooms (one front, one back) used as the lawyer's offices. The kitchens

and staircase were at the back of the passage, a garden lying beyond;

and there was a handsome drawing-room on the first floor, not much used.

The house, I say, was in a commotion with the spring cleaning,

and the other preparations. To accommodate so many visitors

required contrivance: a bedroom for the captain, a bedroom for his

daughter-in-law, two bedrooms for the children. Mistress and maids

held momentous consultations together.

"We have decided to put the three little girls in Philip's old room,

John," said Miss Betty to her brother, as they sat in the parlour after

dinner on the Monday evening of the week preceding Passion Week; "and

little Philip can have the small room off mine. We shall have to get in

a child's bed, though; I can't put the three little girls in one bed;

they might get fighting. John, I do wish you'd sell that old bureau for

what it will fetch."

"Sell the old bureau!" exclaimed Mr. Cockermuth.

"I'm sure I should. What good does it do? Unless that bureau goes out of

the room, we can't put the extra bed in. I've been in there half the day

with Susan and Ann, planning and contriving, and we find it can't be

done any way. Do let Ward take it away, John; there's no place for it in

the other chambers. He'd give you a fair price for it, I dare say."

Miss Betty had never cared for this piece of furniture, thinking it more

awkward than useful: she looked eagerly at her brother, awaiting his

decision. She was the elder of the two; tall, like him; but whilst he

maintained his thin, wiry form, just the shape of an upright gas-post

with arms, she had grown stout with no shape at all. Miss Betty had

dark, thick eyebrows and an amiable red face. She wore a "front" of

brown curls with a high and dressy cap perched above it. This evening

her gown was of soft twilled shot-green silk, a white net kerchief was

crossed under its body, and she had on a white muslin apron.

"I don't mind," assented the lawyer, as easy in disposition as Miss

Betty was; "it's of no use keeping it that I know of. Send for Ward and

ask him, if you like, Betty."

Ward, a carpenter and cabinet-maker, who had a shop in the town and

sometimes bought second-hand things, was sent for by Miss Betty on the

following morning; and he agreed, after some chaffering, to buy the

old bureau. It was the bureau from which Philip's box of gold had

disappeared--but I dare say you have understood that. In the midst

of all this stir and clatter, just as Ward betook himself away after

concluding the negotiation, and the maids were hard at work above stairs

with mops and pails and scrubbing-brushes, the first advance-guard of

the visitors unexpectedly walked in: Captain Cockermuth.

Miss Betty sat down in an access of consternation. She could do nothing

but stare. He had not been expected for a week yet; there was nothing

ready and nowhere to put him.

"I wish you'd take to behaving like a rational being, Charles!" she

exclaimed. "We are all in a mess; the rooms upside down, and the bedside

carpets hanging out at the windows."

Captain Cockermuth said he did not care for bedside carpets, he could

sleep anywhere--on the brewhouse-bench, if she liked. He quite approved

of selling the old bureau, when told it was going to be done.

Ward had appointed five o'clock that evening to fetch it away. They were

about to sit down to dinner when he came, five o'clock being the hour

for late dinners then in ordinary life. Ward had brought a man with him

and they went upstairs.

Miss Betty, as carver, sat at the top of the dining-table, her back to

the windows, the lawyer in his place at the foot, Charles between them,

facing the fire. Miss Betty was cutting off the first joint of a loin

of veal when the bureau was heard coming down the staircase, with much

bumping and noise.

Mr. Cockermuth stepped out of the dining-room to look on. The captain

followed: being a sociable man with his fellow-townspeople, he went to

ask Ward how he did.

The bureau came down safely, and was lodged at the foot of the stairs;

the man wiped his hot face, while Ward spoke with Captain Cockermuth. It

seemed quite a commotion in the usual quiet dwelling. Susan, a jug of

ale in her hand, which she had been to the cellar to draw, stood looking

on from the passage; Mr. Dene and a younger clerk, coming out of the

office just then to leave for the evening, turned to look on also.

"I suppose there's nothing in here, sir?" cried Ward, returning to

business and the bureau.

"Nothing, I believe," replied Mr. Cockermuth.

"Nothing at all," called out Miss Betty through the open parlour-door.

"I emptied the drawers this morning."

Ward, a cautious man and honest, drew back the lid and put his hand in

succession into the pigeon-holes; which had not been used since Philip's

time. There were twelve of them; three above, and three below on each

side, and a little drawer that locked in the middle. "Halloa!" cried

Ward, when his hand was in the depth of one of them: "here's something."

And he drew forth the lost box. The little ebony box with all the gold

in it.

Well now, that was a strange thing. Worcester thinks so, those people

who are still living to remember it, to this day. How it was that the

box had appeared to be lost and was searched for in vain over and

over again, by poor Philip and others; and how it was that it was now

recovered in this easy and natural manner, was never explained or

accounted for. Ward's opinion was that the box must have been put in,

side upwards, that it had in some way stuck to the back of the deep,

narrow pigeon-hole, which just about held the box in width, that those

who had searched took the box for the back of the hole when their

fingers touched it and that the bumping of the bureau now in coming

downstairs had dislodged the box and brought it forward. As a maker of

bureaus, Ward's opinion was listened to with deference. Any way, it was

a sort of theory, serving passably well in the absence of any other. But

who knew? All that was certain about it was the fact; the loss and the

recovery after many years. It happened just as here described, as I have

already said.

Sam Dene had never heard of the loss. Captain Cockermuth, perfectly

beside himself with glee, explained it to him. Sam laughed as he touched

with his forefinger the closely packed golden guineas, lying there so

snug and safe, offered his congratulations, and walked home to tea.

It chanced that on that especial Tuesday evening, matters were at sixes

and sevens in the Parslets' house. Sally had misbehaved herself and was

discharged in consequence; and the servant engaged in her place, who was

to have entered that afternoon, had not made her appearance. When Sam

entered, Maria came out of the parlour, a pretty blush upon her face.

And to Sam the unexpected sight of her, it was not often he got a chance

of it, and the blush and the sweet eyes came like a gleam of Eden, for

he had grown to love her dearly. Not that he had owned it to himself

yet.

Maria explained. Her school had broken up for the Easter holidays

earlier than it ought, one of the girls showing symptoms of measles;

and her mother had gone out to see what had become of the new servant,

leaving a request that Mr. Dene would take his tea with them in the

parlour that evening, as there was no one to wait on him.

Nothing loth, you may be sure, Mr. Dene accepted the invitation, running

up to wash his hands, and give a look at his hair, and running down in

a trice. The tea-tray stood in readiness on the parlour table, Maria

sitting behind it. Perhaps she had given a look at _her_ hair, for it

was quite more lovely, Sam thought, more soft and silken than any hair

he had ever seen. The little copper kettle sang away on the hob by the

fire.

"Will papa be long, do you know?" began Maria demurely, feeling shy and

conscious at being thus thrown alone into Sam's company. "I had better

not make the tea until he comes in."

"I don't know at all," answered Sam. "He went out on some business for

Mr. Cockermuth at half-past four, and was not back when I left. Such a

curious thing has just happened up there, Miss Parslet!"

"Indeed! What is it?"

Sam entered on the narrative. Maria, who knew all about the strange loss

of the box, grew quite excited as she listened. "Found!" she exclaimed.

"Found in the same bureau! And all the golden guineas in it!"

"Every one," said Sam: "as I take it. They were packed right up to the

top!"

"Oh, what a happy thing!" repeated Maria, in a fervent tone that rather

struck Sam, and she clasped her fingers into one another, as one

sometimes does in pleasure or in pain.

"Why do you say that, Miss Parslet?"

"Because papa--but I do not think I ought to tell you," added Maria,

breaking off abruptly.

"Oh yes, you may. I am quite safe, even if it's a secret. Please do."

"Well," cried the easily persuaded girl, "papa has always had an

uncomfortable feeling upon him ever since the loss. He feared that some

people, knowing he was not well off, might think perhaps it was he who

had stolen upstairs and taken it."

Sam laughed at that.

"He has never _said_ so, but somehow we have seen it, my mother and I.

It was altogether so mysterious a loss, you see, affording no clue as to

_when_ it occurred, that people were ready to suspect anything, however

improbable. Oh, I am thankful it is found!"

The kettle went on singing, the minutes went on flitting, and still

nobody came. Six o'clock struck out from the cathedral as Mr. Parslet

entered. Had the two been asked the time, they might have said it was

about a quarter-past five. Golden hours fly quickly; fly on angels'

wings.

Now it chanced that whilst they were at tea, a creditor of Sam's came

to the door, one Jonas Badger. Sam went to him: and the colloquy that

ensued might be heard in the parlour. Mr. Badger said (in quite a

fatherly way) that he really could not be put off any longer with

promises; if his money was not repaid to him before Easter he should be

obliged to take steps about it, should write to Mr. Jacobson, of Elm

Farm, to begin with. Sam returned to the tea-table with a wry face.

Soon after that, Mrs. Parslet came in, the delinquent servant in her

rear. Next, a friend of Sam's called, Austin Chance, whose father was a

solicitor in good practice in the town. The two young men, who were very

intimate and often together, went up to Sam's room above.

"I say, my good young friend," began Chance, in a tone that might be

taken for jest or earnest, "don't you go and get into any entanglement

in that quarter."

"What d'you mean now?" demanded Sam, turning the colour of the rising

sun.

"I mean Maria Parslet," said Austin Chance, laughing. "She's a deuced

nice girl; I know that; just the one a fellow might fall in love with

unawares. But it wouldn't do, Dene."

"Why wouldn't it do?"

"Oh, come now, Sam, you know it wouldn't. Parslet is only a working

clerk at Cockermuth's."

"I should like to know what has put the thought in your head?"

contended Sam. "You had better put it out again. I've never told you

I was falling in love with her; or told herself, either. Mrs. Parslet

would be about me, I expect, if I did. She looks after her as one looks

after gold."

"Well, I found you in their room, having tea with them, and----"

"It was quite an accident; an exceptional thing," interrupted Sam.

"Well," repeated Austin, "you need not put your back up, old fellow; a

friendly warning does no harm. Talking of gold, Dene, I've done my best

to get up the twenty pounds you wanted to borrow of me, and I can't do

it. I'd let you have it with all my heart if I could; but I find I am

harder up than I thought for."

Which was all true. Chance was as good-natured a young man as ever

lived, but at this early stage of his life he made more debts than he

could pay.

"Badger has just been here, whining and covertly threatening," said Sam.

"I am to pay up in a week, or he'll make me pay--and tell my uncle, he

says, to begin with."

"Hypocritical old skinflint!" ejaculated Chance, himself sometimes in

the hands of Mr. Badger--a worthy gentleman who did a little benevolent

usury in a small and quiet way, and took his delight in accommodating

safe young men. A story was whispered that young M., desperately

hard-up, borrowed two pounds from him one Saturday night, undertaking

to repay it, with two pounds added on for interest, that day month; and

when the day came and M. had not got the money, or was at all likely to

get it, he carried off a lot of his mother's plate under his coat to

the pawnbroker's.

"And there's more besides Badger's that is pressing," went on Dene. "I

must get money from somewhere, or it will play the very deuce with me.

I wonder whether Charley Hill could lend me any?"

"Don't much think so. You might ask him. Money seems scarce with Hill

always. Has a good many ways for it, I fancy."

"Talking of money, Chance, a lot has been found at Cockermuth's to-day.

A boxful of guineas that has been lost for years."

Austin Chance stared. "You don't mean that box of guineas that

mysteriously disappeared in Philip's time?"

"Well, they say so. It is a small, round box of carved ebony, and it is

stuffed to the brim with old guineas. Sixty of them, I hear."

"I can't believe it's true; that _that's_ found."

"Not believe it's true, Chance! Why, I saw it. Saw the box found,

and touched the guineas with my fingers. It has been hidden in an old

bureau all the time," added Sam, and he related the particulars of the

discovery.

"What an extraordinary thing!" exclaimed young Chance: "the queerest

start I ever heard of." And he fell to musing.

But the "queer start," as Mr. Austin Chance was pleased to designate

the resuscitation of the box, did not prove to be a lucky one.