Part 10

A terrible thought came into George's mind, and he did not shut it out. He lingered a moment behind his parents, and snatching the false note, thrust it far down in his pocket; then he followed to the breakfast-room. But he could eat nothing; the food lay untouched upon his plate. A guilty, almost _sick_ feeling took from him all appetite, made him hate the sight of those happy faces about the table, and think that every look which was turned upon him was full of anger and scorn. Once when Harry accidentally touched him, he clapped his hand over his pocket with a sudden fear that he was about to drag forth the note and expose him; and when tender-hearted little Bessie came to him, saying that, since he had eaten no breakfast, he should have half of her orange, he pushed her rudely from him, and would not take the gift she offered so prettily. His father reproved him sharply for his ill-manners, and his mother said she was sure George was not well, something had been wrong with him for two or three days; he must see the doctor.

Yes, something was wrong, very wrong with George, but it was not what his anxious mother thought; it was far worse than any sickness of the body; it was the evil of a bad heart, of a guilty purpose, and no doctor could cure him since he would not go to the great Physician. All the morning he crept about the house, wretched and uneasy, looking miserable enough to give cause for his mother's anxiety. Once or twice his wicked resolution almost gave way, and he half determined to throw away the note and think no more of the money in the box; but again the tempter whispered, drowning the feeble voice of conscience, and giving him many reasons why he should take what he wished for.

That afternoon he was left alone. His mother and Mrs. Bradford went out, taking Maggie and Bessie with them, leaving him behind at his own request. The boys were at school; his father and Mr. Bradford far away down town; it really seemed as if all had been arranged for him to carry out his purpose.

Rising from the sofa, upon which his mother had left him, he stole softly to the door and peeped out. How still the house was! He went slowly along the hall, watching the turn of the stairs lest a head should suddenly appear above it, reached Mrs. Bradford's door, pushed it open and entered. Now, quick--not a minute to lose. Hark! What is that? Nothing but old nurse crooning softly to her baby in the nursery.

Noiselessly he pulled open the drawer, lifted the box, the secret of which Maggie had showed him, from its corner, took out one of the fresh clean notes, and put in its place the crumpled, worthless bill his father had thrown aside that morning.

Whenever he had felt reproached for the meanness he was guilty of towards the dear little girls who had been so kind to him, he would say to himself that it was not at all likely they would suffer from it; probably the bad note would be paid away with the others; his father had taken it without noticing that it was false, why should not others do so? Even if it should be found out, Mr. Bradford would give his children another in the place of it; he was a rich man, a dollar was nothing to him.

He was about to put the box back, when the thought came to him, why take only one? Forgetting in his guilty haste that the loss of a second would make the change of the first more easily discovered, he touched the spring once more, took out another dollar, and then hastily replaced the box.

The deed once done, half his fears seemed to pass away. How easy it had been! No one had seen him, no one heard him; he was going away with his father and mother in two days, and probably no one would find out--the _theft_ he would not say to himself--he called it the _loss_.

While Mr. Moore was out, he thought that he had been careless in the matter of the false note, and when he came home, looked for it, that he might destroy it. But it was gone, and his wife could tell him nothing of it. He called George, and asked him if he had seen it. George hesitated, and seemed so confused that his father was sure he had it, and asked how he had dared take it, when he knew it to be bad.

"I only took it to play with," stammered George. "I am always playing store with Maggie and Bessie, and I thought it would be nice for money."

This was true, as Mr. Moore knew, and, more gently, he told his son to give him the note.

"I threw it away," said the wicked boy; "I thought maybe you would not like me to have it, and I put it in the fire."

"All right then," said Mr. Moore, "but why are you so frightened? you have done nothing so very wrong, though it would have been better if you had not touched the note, and I am myself to blame for leaving it where there was any probability that it might be turned to a bad use."

George was only too glad that he had escaped so easily, and had no feelings of sorrow for having deceived his kind, good father.

The rest of that day and the whole of the next passed, and he heard nothing to alarm him. Every one was more kind than usual to him, though he himself was restless and fretful, for all thought he was not well. He kept out of the way of the other children, and spent half his time lounging on the sofa in his mother's room. He would willingly have spent the whole of his time there, but he was tormented with the fear that something might have been discovered, and would go about among the family to make sure that all was safe.

"Mamma," said Maggie, dancing into her mother's room, on the morning of the third day,--"mamma, nurse says this is the tenth of the month."

"Well, Dimple, what of that?"

"Why, mamma, you know that is the day you give us the glove-money, and here are my gloves,--the best ones quite, quite good, and the second-best are very nice, too; Jane mended them yesterday; and here comes Bessie with hers, and they are _very_ nice; and I have had only one pair of boot-laces this month, mamma, and so do you not think we have enough for the log-cabin library, and for Mary's sack, too? We want to buy it and give it to her for Christmas, if you will let Jane make it. I think we shall have enough, mamma; don't you think so?"

Certainly her mother's name of "Dimple" was well suited to Maggie just then; for mouth, cheeks, and chin seemed running over with smiles, while her eyes looked as if they would dance out of her head. Nor was Bessie much less eager, as she stood beside her sister, and the four little hands each held up a pair of gloves.

"We will see," said mamma. "Papa is not quite ready to go down-stairs; we shall have time to count it up. I think you have over five dollars in your box, and these two,"--as she spoke, Mrs. Bradford took some money from her purse--"will make over seven. I think we shall manage to buy Mary's sack out of that."

She sat down upon a low chair, the children standing on each side, and taking the box from the drawer, emptied it into her lap.

"A pair of bootlaces for Maggie and one for Bessie, that leaves two dollars and fifteen cents for this month. Now here is--Why, what a crumpled note! How came this here?" and Mrs. Bradford took up the bill which George had vainly endeavored to smooth out. "I thought all those notes papa gave you were quite clean and fresh."

"So they were, mamma, nice and new and pretty; and, mamma, I am quite sure I did not muss that up so, and--Why there are only two bills, and we had three! I did not lose any, mamma,--I know I did not," said poor Maggie, all in a flutter, lest her mother should think this was some of her old carelessness.

"Do not be frightened, dear," said Mrs. Bradford; "no one is going to accuse you, or think you have been careless unless there is good reason for it. Henry, will you come here for one moment?"

Mr. Bradford came from his dressing-room, hair-brush in hand.

"Do you know anything of this bill? Have you changed any of the children's money?" asked his wife.

He took the note from her hand.

"This is a counterfeit, and a very poor one too," he said, the moment he looked at it. "Have either of you ever seen it before, children?"

"No, papa," said Maggie. "I know it is not one of our bills. We kept them just as nice as you gave them to us, and one is gone too."

"When did you last have out your money?" asked Mrs. Bradford.

"The day we went to the dentist's, mamma. When papa gave me the dollar that evening, I went for the box and put it in, and George counted the money for us, and there were three bills there, all clean and new."

"And we told Harry how much it was, and he put it in his little book," said Bessie; "he always keeps how much we have in his little book, mamma."

"Some one has meddled with it," said Mr. Bradford. "The notes I gave the children were all new ones on the ---- Bank."

"Will we never find our own dollars, do you think, papa?" said Maggie, with a very long face.

"Yes, indeed, my darling,--at least, you shall have others in their place. This loss must not fall on you after all your efforts."

"I should have locked up the box," said Mrs. Bradford. "I wish I had taken your advice, Henry."

Mr. Bradford took from his pocket-book two other bank-notes, and gave them to the children.

"I do not wish you to speak of this to any one," he said to them; and they promised to obey.

Then mamma counted up all the money and it came to seven dollars, sixty-nine cents,--five for the library, and the rest for Mary's sack; for Mrs. Bradford said there was quite enough to buy some warm, cheap cloth, and she would let Jane make it at once, that it might be ready. They should go out with her that day and help choose the cloth.

Mr. Bradford carefully put away the counterfeit note, thinking that it might help to find out the guilty person, and when he went down-stairs, called Harry and Fred into the library.

"Harry," he said, "how much money was in the children's box when you counted it for them the other day?"

"Five dollars, sixty-nine cents, papa,--here it is written down;" and Harry, who was very neat and orderly in all his ways, pulled out his memorandum-book and read "M.'s and B.'s box, Dec. 5th, $5.69 cents." This was the sum which should have been in the box, and showed that the money had been taken within the last few days. Mr. Bradford told the boys of the loss, for he wished that they should know of it, but he charged them to be silent. Both he and his wife were very uncomfortable. There were one or two new servants in the house, but they had come with good characters, and there was no reason to think they had taken the money. None of them knew where it was kept, or the secret of the box. Only one besides their own children knew that.

XIV.

_DISCOVERY._

MR. and Mrs. Moore and their son were to leave early the next morning, and as the day passed on, and George heard nothing of the stolen money, he began to think the loss would not be found out till he had gone; and then, he thought, he should be quite safe. He did not dare to spend it now, lest the Bradford children should wonder where the money came from; but when he went home, he could easily do so without discovery. He had been visiting at his uncle's before he came here, and it would be very easy to say he had given it to him. The last time he had been there, his uncle had given him five dollars; but this time, nothing. There were, or there had been, more than five dollars in that box; why had he not taken it all? It was just as easy to say he had received five dollars as two; and when it was missed, it would be thought some of the servants had taken it, or that it had been lost through some of Maggie's carelessness. He had gone so far in sin now, that he did not hesitate to go deeper and deeper; and determined, if possible, to have the rest of the contents of the box.

That evening it seemed as if "chance," as he called it, was again about to favor him. Mrs. Stanton and Miss Annie were there, and after dinner all the ladies and the younger children were gathered in the parlor; while the two boys were at their lessons in the little study-room at the head of the stairs. Mr. Moore was out. Mr. Bradford had left the room a short time since, saying he, too, must go out for a while, and the servants, George knew, were at their tea. _Now_ was his time.

Making some excuse to leave the parlor, he ran up-stairs till he reached the first turning. The door of the study-room stood ajar. Pshaw! The boys would hear him. He peeped in. No one there but Harry, studying after his usual fashion, with his elbows on the table, his head between his hands, and his fingers thrust into his ears to shut out all sound that might take his attention from his book. Fred must have gone to his own room in the third story. He should hear him if he came down. Headlong, noisy Fred was sure to give notice of his coming.

But he must make haste. There is not a moment to lose. Almost forgetting his caution in his guilty hurry, he ran quickly up the few remaining steps, and along the hall to Mrs. Bradford's room. He stole in as he had done once before. The jet of gas in the burner over the dressing-bureau which held the coveted prize was turned down very low, but the bright fire dancing in the grate made the room quite light enough for his guilty purpose.

He opened the drawer and took up the box. How light it was! and there was no rattle of pennies, none of what dear little Maggie had called, in the joy of her heart, "her log-cabin music." He touched the spring, and the box flew open. Empty! He stood for a moment looking into it, then turned it up to the firelight to make sure there was nothing within. As he did so, he heard steps behind him; a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up with a start, he saw Mr. Bradford's face sternly bent upon him, while at his elbow he met Fred's clear, honest eyes blazing with scorn and indignation. His own fell to the ground, and there he stood, like the mean, pitiful thing he was, trembling and cowering, the open box still in his hand.

There was a moment's silence, and then Fred broke forth.

"So it _was_ you, you rascal! you mean, sneaking, cowardly thief! You are the fellow that robs little girls of their hard-earned money! You--you--you--" Fred's passion was choking him.

"Hush, hush, my son!" said Mr. Bradford, sadly; "it is not for you to reproach this unhappy boy. Leave him to me. Go to your play, if you _can_ play after what you have seen."

Fred laid both his own hands on that which rested on George's shoulder. "Take your hand from him then, father; he is not fit to be touched by an honest man, by an honorable gentleman! A thief!"

"Go, go, Fred, and do not speak of this till you see me again."

Fred obeyed, as he knew he must when his father spoke in that tone.

"Now," said Mr. Bradford sternly to the guilty boy, "go in there;" and he pointed to the door of his dressing-room.

Trembling, and fearing he knew not what, but not daring to disobey, George did as he was told. Mr. Bradford followed, silently put beyond George's reach everything on which he might lay his hands, locked every drawer and closet, and then turned to leave the room.

George started forward. "What are you going to do?" he stammered.

"Leave you here till your father comes. I cannot deal with you, for, thank God, you are not my child."

"Oh, don't, don't!" said the wretched boy, falling on his knees. "Oh, I did not mean to--I was only looking--he will punish me so--I would not have taken--"

"Hush, hush," said Mr. Bradford, "and do not kneel to me. Do not add to your sin by trying to deny it, but think over what you have done; and when your poor father comes, be ready to make confession to him, and to the God against whom you have sinned."

"But don't tell father; he will be so angry; he minds such things so much. He--he never would forgive me."

"And yet the son of such a father could do this terrible thing? I grieve to tell him, George; rather, far rather, even for my own sake, would I pass over this in silence, and let you go unpunished; but it is a duty I owe to you, as well as to him, not to let you go on unchecked in sin. I see, too, poor boy, that it is the fear of punishment, not of distressing your kind father, which makes you so anxious that I should not tell him. You do not yet see your guilt, unhappy child; you only dread the pain and shame which it has brought upon yourself."

As Mr. Bradford ceased speaking, Mr. Moore's short, quick step was heard in the hall, and the next moment he rapped upon the door. Fred, going down-stairs, had met him coming in, and was asked where George was. He had answered, "Up-stairs;" but he had been so shocked and distressed by what he had seen that Mr. Moore had noticed his manner, and asked if anything were wrong with George. Fred would not say what the trouble was, but told Mr. Moore where he would find his son.

Mr. Bradford opened the door.

"Fred told me that George was here," said Mr. Moore, looking much disturbed. "What is wrong?" he asked, as he saw his son's guilty, miserable face.

"Will you tell your father, George, or shall I?" asked Mr. Bradford.

But George only cried and sobbed, saying, "he did not mean to--it was very hard--he was only looking"--till Mr. Moore once more asked Mr. Bradford to explain what all this meant.

Mr. Bradford told the story in as few words as possible,--how his little daughters had shown George the secret of the box, telling him why they were laying by the money; how that morning two of the notes had been missed, and the false one found in their place (as he spoke, taking the bill from his pocket-book and handing it to Mr. Moore); how Mrs. Bradford had put the rest of the money in a safer place; and lastly, how he and Fred had just seen George go to the drawer and take out the box, as if with the intention of adding to his sin by a new theft.

It was a hard thing for Mr. Bradford to do; he knew how he should feel himself if one of his own boys had done this. He was very much grieved for his friend, and when he had told all as gently as possible, he went away, and left him alone with his unhappy son. What passed between them it is not necessary to tell you. George would have denied his guilt even now, but the false note in his father's hand made this impossible.

Maggie and Bessie did not see him again, for Mr. and Mrs. Moore left the next morning at an hour even earlier than they had intended; for after this terrible sorrow had come upon them, they felt that they could not bear to meet any of Mr. Bradford's children again.

Perhaps you may like to know how Fred and his father discovered George's guilt. It so happened that Fred's quick temper had brought him into more trouble at school, and he did not know exactly how to act in the matter. He had finished his lessons, and was thinking this over when he heard his father come up-stairs and go to his dressing-room.

"I've a great mind to tell papa, and see what he says of it," he said to himself. To think and to do were with Fred one and the same thing; and the next moment he was with his father, asking if he would wait and hear his story. He might have been sure of that; Mr. Bradford always had time to spare if his children needed his help or advice.

Fred told his story, and they were sitting talking it over in low tones when George's step was heard in the next room. The dressing-room was quite in the shade, and though George neither saw nor heard those who were within, he himself was plainly seen through the open door, at his guilty work.

And now, like our Maggie and Bessie, we need have no more to do with this poor boy, and will take leave of him. The little girls were not told that the thief had been discovered. Their mother thought it would only shock and distress them, while it could serve no good purpose for them to know it. They wondered, and talked of it between themselves for a few days; and then there were so many pleasanter things to think of that they forgot all about it.

XV.

_THE SNOW._

THESE were indeed pleasant times, and very happy children were our Maggie and Bessie. The only trouble was that night would come, and put an end to first one and then another of these delightful days, and that, as Maggie said, they had to stop enjoying themselves "just to go to sleep."

"I wish the sun always shone in this country," she said, "and that night never, never came."

"What would the little children on the other side of the world say to that?" said papa. "If you had the ruling of day and night, and kept the sun all the time on one side, how do you think they would like to have it always night?"

"Oh! I did not think about that," said Maggie. "I suppose it would be pretty selfish. I guess I had better wish for two suns, one on our side, and one on theirs."

"Or, better still, rest satisfied that our heavenly Father has ordered all things, night and day, sun, moon, and stars, as is best for his own glory and the happiness and comfort of all his creatures," said Mr. Bradford. "I think even my wide-awake Maggie would tire of the light of the sun if it should shine for the twenty-four hours, day after day, and the quiet, blessed night never come, when we might close our tired eyes, and take the rest we need."

"Could we not sleep in the day-time if we were tired, papa?"

"We might sleep, but not as well or as pleasantly as we now do when all is dark and quiet."

"Then if I was to wish for two suns, I'd better wish we should never be tired or sleepy."

"So you might go on wishing forever, and if you had the power, changing first one and then another of the wise laws which our Father in heaven has made for the good of all. And what distress and confusion this would make! What a miserable, unhappy world this would be if you, or some other weak, human creature who cannot see the end from the beginning, and cannot tell what would be the consequence of his wishes, were allowed such power. No, we may thank God, not only that he does what is best for us, but also that he has allowed none but himself to be the judge of this."

"So I had better be contented to have the night as it is, papa; is that what you mean? Perhaps other people would not like to have things as I did, and they might think I was a very disagreeable child to have them my way; and I should not like that at all."

"I would not be glad if there was never any night," said Bessie, who was always more ready than her sister to go to rest.

"Then I wont wish it," said Maggie; "and I shall just always try to think 'our Father' knows best, even if I don't feel quite suited myself."

One afternoon, about dark, it began to snow, much to the children's delight; for grandmamma had promised a sleigh-ride whenever it should be possible. All night the soft, feathery flakes fell gently and steadily, so that in the morning the ground was covered thickly with a beautiful white mantle.