h."

"Sixpences!" said Watson, with a laugh. "It's not sixpences as Mrs.
Costrell's 'ad the spendin' of this last month or two--it's
_suverins_--an' plenty ov 'em. You may be sure you've got the wrong
tale about the money, John; it wor a deal more nor you say."

John stood stock still at the word "sovereigns," his jaw dropping.

"_Suverins_," he said trembling; "suverins? Bessie ain't got no
suverins. Isaac arns sixteen shillin' a week."

The colour was ebbing fast from his cheek and lips. Watson threw him a
quick, professional glance, then rapidly consulted with himself. No;
he decided to hold his tongue.

"Yo' _are_ reg'lar used up," he said, taking hold of the old fellow
kindly by the arm. "Shall I walk yer up the hill?"

John withdrew himself.

"_Suverins!_" he repeated, in a low, hoarse voice. "She ain't got 'em,
I tell yer--she ain't got 'em!"

The last words rose to a sort of cry, and, without another word to
Watson, the old man started at a feeble run, his head hanging.

Watson followed him, afraid lest he should drop in the road. Instead,
John seemed to gather strength. He made straight for the hill, taking
no heed whatever of two or three startled acquaintances who stopped and
shouted to him. When the ground began to rise he stumbled again and
again, but, by a marvel, did not fall, and his pace hardly slackened.
Watson had difficulty in keeping up with him.

But when the policeman reached his own cottage on the side of the road,
he stopped, panting, and contented himself with looking after the
mounting figure. As soon as it turned the corner of the Costrells'
lane, he went into his own house, said a word to his wife, and sat
himself down at his own back door to await events--to ponder, also, a
few conversations he had held that morning, with Mrs. Moulsey at "the
shop," with Dawson, with Hall the butcher. Poor old John--poor old
fellow!

When Bolderfield reached the paling in front of the Costrells' cottage,
he paused a moment, holding for support to the half-open gate and
struggling for breath. "I must keep my 'edd, I must," he was saying to
himself piteously; "don' yer be a fool, John Borroful, don' yer be a
fool!"

As he stood there, a child's face pushed the window-blind of the
cottage aside, and the lame boy's large eyes looked Bolderfield up and
down. Immediately after, the door opened, and all four children stood
huddling behind each other on the threshold. They all look