natched it out of his hand, opened it, and drew out some bank-notes,
put them back again immediately, and, closing the pocketbook, stepped
across the room to my poor mother's little walnut-wood book-case, the
only bit of valuable furniture we had in the house.

"What are you going to do there?" asked Mr. Knifton, following his wife.

Mrs. Knifton opened the glass door of the book-case, put the pocketbook
in a vacant place on one of the lower shelves, closed and locked the
door again, and gave me the key.

"You called me a spendthrift just now," she said. "There is my answer.
Not one farthing of that money shall you spend at Cliverton on _me_.
Keep the key in your pocket, Bessie, and, whatever Mr. Knifton may say,
on no account let him have it until we call again on our way back. No,
sir, I won't trust you with that money in your pocket in the town of
Cliverton. I will make sure of your taking it all home again, by leaving
it here in more trustworthy hands than yours until we ride back. Bessie,
my dear, what do you say to that as a lesson in economy inflicted on a
prudent husband by a spendthrift wife?"

She took Mr. Knifton's arm while she spoke, and drew him away to the
door. He protested and made some resistance, but she easily carried her
point, for he was far too fond of her to have a will of his own in any
trifling matter between them. Whatever the men might say, Mr. Knifton
was a model husband in the estimation of all the women who knew him.

"You will see us as we come back, Bessie. Till then, you are our banker,
and the pocketbook is yours," cried Mrs. Knifton, gayly, at the door.
Her husband lifted her into the saddle, mounted himself, and away they
both galloped over the moor as wild and happy as a couple of children.

Although my being trusted with money by Mrs. Knifton was no novelty (in
her maiden days she always employed me to pay her dress-maker's bills),
I did not feel quite easy at having a pocketbook full of bank-notes left
by her in my charge. I had no positive apprehensions about the safety of
the deposit placed in my hands, but it was one of the odd points in my
character then (and I think it is still) to feel an unreasonably strong
objection to charging myself with money responsibilities of any kind,
even to suit the convenience of my dearest friends. As soon as I was
left alone, the very sight of the pocketbook behind the glass door of
the book-case began to worry me, and instead of returning