' she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked
about a mile in silence, 'do you think they are honest people at the
house yonder?'

'Why?' returned the old man trembling. 'Do I think them honest--yes,
they played honestly.'

'I'll tell you why I ask,' rejoined Nell. 'I lost some money last
night--out of my bedroom, I am sure. Unless it was taken by somebody
in jest--only in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh
heartily if I could but know it--'

'Who would take money in jest?' returned the old man in a hurried
manner. 'Those who take money, take it to keep. Don't talk of jest.'

'Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,' said the child, whose last
hope was destroyed by the manner of this reply.

'But is there no more, Nell?' said the old man; 'no more anywhere? Was
it all taken--every farthing of it--was there nothing left?'

'Nothing,' replied the child.

'We must get more,' said the old man, 'we must earn it, Nell, hoard it
up, scrape it together, come by it somehow. Never mind this loss.
Tell nobody of it, and perhaps we may regain it. Don't ask how;--we
may regain it, and a great deal more;--but tell nobody, or trouble may
come of it. And so they took it out of thy room, when thou wert
asleep!' he added in a compassionate tone, very different from the
secret, cunning way in which he had spoken until now. 'Poor Nell, poor
little Nell!'

The child hung down her head and wept. The sympathising tone in which
he spoke, was quite sincere; she was sure of that. It was not the
lightest part of her sorrow to know that this was done for her.

'Not a word about it to any one but me,' said the old man, 'no, not
even to me,' he added hastily, 'for it can do no good. All the losses
that ever were, are not worth tears from thy eyes, darling. Why should
they be, when we will win them back?'

'Let them go,' said the child looking up. 'Let them go, once and for
ever, and I would never shed another tear if every penny had been a
thousand pounds.'

'Well, well,' returned the old man, checking himself as some impetuous
answer rose to his lips, 'she knows no better. I ought to be thankful
of it.'

'But listen to me,' said the child earnestly, 'will you listen to me?'

'Aye, aye, I'll listen,' returned the old man, still without looking at
her; 'a pretty voice. It has always a sweet sound to me. It always
had when it was her mother's, poor child.'

'Let me persuade you, then--oh, do