rybody believes there was
only one good generous soul in this village, and now it turns out that
you--Edward, why don't you tell me?"

"Well--er--er--Why, Mary, I can't!"

"You CAN'T? WHY can't you?"

"You see, he--well, he--he made me promise I wouldn't."

The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly:

"Made--you--promise? Edward, what do you tell me that for?"

"Mary, do you think I would lie?"

She was troubled and silent for a moment, then she laid her hand within
his and said:

"No... no. We have wandered far enough from our bearings--God spare us
that! In all your life you have never uttered a lie. But now--now that
the foundations of things seem to be crumbling from under us, we--we--"
She lost her voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, "Lead us not into
temptation... I think you made the promise, Edward. Let it rest so. Let
us keep away from that ground. Now--that is all gone by; let us be happy
again; it is no time for clouds."

Edward found it something of an effort to comply, for his mind kept
wandering--trying to remember what the service was that he had done
Goodson.

The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary happy and busy, Edward
busy, but not so happy. Mary was planning what she would do with the
money. Edward was trying to recall that service. At first his conscience
was sore on account of the lie he had told Mary--if it was a lie. After
much reflection--suppose it WAS a lie? What then? Was it such a great
matter? Aren't we always ACTING lies? Then why not tell them? Look at
Mary--look what she had done. While he was hurrying off on his honest
errand, what was she doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn't been
destroyed and the money kept. Is theft better than lying?

THAT point lost its sting--the lie dropped into the background and left
comfort behind it. The next point came to the front: HAD he rendered
that service? Well, here was Goodson's own evidence as reported in
Stephenson's letter; there could be no better evidence than that--it
was even PROOF that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point was
settled... No, not quite. He recalled with a wince that this unknown Mr.
Stephenson was just a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it
was Richards or some other--and, oh dear, he had put Richards on his
honour! He must himself decide whither that money must go--and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the wrong man he would go
honourably and find the righ