aresay there are, plenty," answered Aunt Hannah, who was
getting tired of the subject. "Now, get your geography books."

But during the rest of the lesson Susan's mind was very far away, and
she made all kinds of stupid mistakes, for what she was thinking of had
nothing to do with the map of England. It was something much more
interesting and important; for quite suddenly, while reading about the
misers, an idea relating to Sophia Jane and the half-crown had darted
into her head. She had hidden it away somewhere, and did not mean to
spend it at all. The manner in which she had chinked those coins in her
pocket and counted them over, and her secret and crafty behaviour since,
all pointed to this. The next question was, "_Where_ had she hidden
it?" What mysterious hole had she found unknown to anyone? Susan ran
over all the possible places in her mind, and was earnestly occupied in
this when Aunt Hannah suddenly asked her a question:

"Where is the town of Croydon?"

"In the attic," answered Susan hurriedly, and then flushed up and gave a
guilty look at Sophia Jane, who merely stared in amazement.

"My dear Susan," said Aunt Hannah, "you are strangely inattentive this
morning. I can't let you play in the attic if you think of your games
during lesson-time."

As the days passed, Susan, watching her companion narrowly, felt more
and more certain that her suspicions were correct. True, she never saw
her retire to the attic alone to count over and rejoice in her secret
hoard, which real misers were always known to do; but there was this to
be remarked: _she bought nothing of Billy Stokes_. When Susan saw her
look wistfully at the cocoa-nut rock, and twisted sticks of sugar-candy,
and remembered all those pennies, she asked:

"Which are you going to buy?"

"None of 'em," said Sophia Jane, turning away. And now Susan doubted no
longer. Sophia Jane was a miser!

Sunday came soon after this. It was a day the children never liked
much, because, for several reasons, it was dull. Aunt Hannah did not
allow them either to play at their usual games or to read their usual
books. Grace was put away, the attic was forbidden, and they had to be
very quiet; the only books considered "fit for Sunday," were _Line upon
Line_, _The Peep of Day_, _The Dairyman's Daughter_ and _The Pilgrim's
Progress_. Bits of this last were always interesting, and the more so
because it was a large old copy with big print and plenty of pi