might be
changed on the morrow for a lonely cell, bread and water, and the
deepest disgrace! Ambrose's headache was considered sufficient reason
for his silence and want of appetite, and his sisters, finding that they
could not even extract any news about Miss Barnicroft's visit from him,
left him undisturbed to his moody misery.

Late that afternoon the vicar came in from a long ride to a distant part
of his parish, threw himself into his easy-chair, and took up the
newspaper for a little rest before dinner. At this hour he was
generally secure from interruption, his day's work was over, the
children were safe in the school-room, there was a comfortable half-hour
before he need think of going upstairs. He was just rejoicing in the
prospect of this repose when a little knock came at his door. It was a
very little knock, one of many which Ambrose and David had already made
so timidly that they could not be heard at all. With a patient sigh Mr
Hawthorne laid his paper across his knees and said, "Come in."

The door opened very slowly and the boys entered, David somewhat in
front, holding Ambrose by the hand. Their father saw at once that they
had something of importance on their minds, for while Ambrose kept his
eyes fixed on the ground, David's were open to their widest extent with
a sort of guilty stare. Neither spoke a word, but marched up to Mr
Hawthorne and stood in perfect silence at his elbow.

"Well?" said the vicar inquiringly.

Ambrose gave a twitch to David's sleeve, for he had promised to speak
first.

"We've come to say--" began David and then stopped, his eyes getting
bigger and rounder, but not moving from his father's face.

"Go on," said Mr Hawthorne.

But David seemed unable to say anything more. He turned to his brother
and whispered hoarsely, "You go on now."

Ambrose had gathered a little courage now that the confession had really
begun, and he murmured without looking up:

"We know where Miss Barnicroft's money is."

The vicar started. He had in truth forgotten all about Miss Barnicroft
and her money, for he had thought it merely one of her own crazy
inventions. That Ambrose and David should have anything to do with it
seemed impossible, and yet the guilty solemn looks of the two little
boys showed that they were in the most serious earnest.

"Miss Barnicroft's money!" he repeated.

"It's in my garden," continued David, taking his turn to speak,
"buried."

Completely bewil