The reader has already obtained some idea of the character of Mary Merton. She was weak, vain, affected, and fond of dress. There was not likely to be much love lost between her and Tom, who was in all respects her opposite. Whatever might have been the defects of her street education, it had at all events secured Tom from such faults as these.

Mary sought the society of such of her companions as were wealthy or fashionable, and was anxious to emulate them in dress. But unfortunately her mother’s income was limited, and she could not gratify her tastes. She was continually teasing Mrs. Merton for this and that article of finery; but, though her mother spent more for her than she could well afford, she was obliged in many cases to disappoint her. So it happened that Mary was led into temptation.

One morning she was going downstairs on her way to school. The door of Mr. Holland’s room (who occupied the second floor front) chanced to be open. It occurred to Mary that the large mirror in this room would enable her to survey her figure to advantage, and, being fond of looking in the glass, she entered.

After satisfactorily accomplishing the object of her visit, Mary, in glancing about, caught sight of a pocket-book on the bureau. Curiosity led her to approach and open it. It proved to contain four five-dollar bills and a small amount of change.

“I wish the money was mine,” said Mary to herself.

There was a particular object for which she wanted it. Two of her companions had handsome gold pencils, which they wore suspended by a cord around their necks. Mary had teased her mother to buy her one, but Mrs. Merton had turned a deaf ear to her request. Finally she had given up asking, finding that it would be of no avail.

“If I only had this money, or half of it,” thought Mary, “I could buy a pencil for myself, and tell mother it was given me by one of my friends.”

The temptation, to a vain girl like Mary, was a strong one.

“Shall I take it?” she thought.

The dishonesty of the act did not so much deter her as the fear of detection. But the idea unluckily suggested itself that Tom would be far more likely to be suspected than she.

“Mr. Holland is rich,” she said to herself; “he won’t feel the loss.”

She held the pocket-book irresolutely in her hand, uncertain whether to take a part of the contents or the whole. Finally she opened it, drew out the bills, amounting to twenty dollars, hastily thrust them into her pocket, and, replacing the pocket-book on the bureau, went downstairs.

She met her mother in the lower hall.

“I am afraid you will be late to school, Mary,” she said.

“I couldn’t find my shoes for a long time,” said Mary, flushing a little at the thought of the money in her pocket.

Mr. Holland’s room had already been attended to, and was not again entered until half-past five in the afternoon, when Mr. Holland, who was a clerk in a down-town office, returned home.

He had missed the pocket-book shortly after leaving the house in the morning, but, being expected at the office at a certain hour, had not been able to return for it. He had borrowed money of a fellow-clerk to pay for his lunch.

As he entered the room, he saw his pocket-book lying on the bureau.

“There it is, all safe,” he said to himself, quite relieved; for, though in receipt of a handsome salary, no one would care to lose twenty dollars.

He was about to put the pocket-book into his pocket unexamined, when it occurred to him to open it, and make sure that the contents were untouched. He was startled on finding less than a dollar, where he distinctly remembered that there had been nearly twenty-one dollars.

“Some one has taken it,” he said to himself. “I must see Mrs. Merton about this.”

He did not get an opportunity of speaking to the landlady until after dinner, when he called her aside, and told her of his loss.

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Holland,” she asked, considerably disturbed, “there were twenty dollars in the pocket-book?”

“Yes, Mrs. Merton. I remember distinctly having counted the money this morning, before laying it on the bureau. It must have been taken by some one in the house. Now, who was likely to enter the room? Which of your servants makes the bed?”

“It was Jenny,” said Mrs. Merton, with a sudden conviction that Tom was the guilty party.

“What, that bright little girl that I have seen about the house?”

“Yes, Mr. Holland, I am afraid it is she,” said Mrs. Merton, shaking her head. “She is not exactly a servant, but a child whom my brother took out of the streets, and induced me to take charge of while he is away. She has been very ill-trained, and I am not surprised to find her dishonest. More than once I have regretted taking charge of her.”

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Holland. “I have noticed that she is rather different from most girls. I wish I had not exposed her to the temptation.”

“She must give up the money, or I won’t keep her in the house,” said Mrs. Merton, who had become indignant at Tom’s ingratitude, as she considered it. “My brother can’t expect me to harbor a thief in the house, even for his sake. It would ruin the reputation of my house if such a thing happened again.”

“She will probably give it back when she finds herself detected,” said Mr. Holland.

“I will tax her with it at once,” said the landlady. “Stay here, Mr. Holland, and I will call her.”

Tom was called in. She looked from one to the other, and something in the expression of each led her to see that she was to be blamed for something, though what she could not conceive.

“Jane,” said Mrs. Merton, sternly, “my brother will be very much grieved when he learns how badly you have behaved to-day.”

“What have I been doing?” asked Tom, looking up with a fearless glance, not by any means like a girl conscious of theft.

“You have taken twenty dollars belonging to Mr. Holland.”

“Who says I did it?” demanded Tom.

“It is useless to deny it. You cleared up his room this morning. His pocket-book was on the bureau.”

“I know it was,” said Tom. “I saw it there.”

“You opened it, and took out twenty dollars.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Tom. “I didn’t touch it.”

“Do not add falsehood to theft. You must have done it. There was no one else likely to do it.”

“Wasn’t the door unlocked all day?” demanded Tom. “Why couldn’t some one else go in and take it as well as I?”

“I feel sure it was you.”

“Why?” asked Tom, her eyes beginning to flash indignantly.

“I have no doubt you have stolen before. My brother took you from the street. You were brought up by a bad old woman, as you say yourself. I ought not to be surprised at your yielding to temptation. If you will restore the money to Mr. Holland, and promise not to steal again, I will overlook your offence, and allow you to remain in the house, since it was my brother’s wish.”

“Mrs. Merton,” said Tom, proudly, “I didn’t take the money, and I can’t give it back. I might have stolen when I lived with granny, for I didn’t get enough to eat half the time, but I wouldn’t do it now.”

“That sounds well,” said Mrs. Merton; “but somebody must have taken the money.”

“I don’t care who took it,” said Tom, “I didn’t.”

“You are more likely to have taken it than any one else.”

“You may search me if you want to,” said Tom, proudly.

“Perhaps she didn’t take it,” said Mr. Holland, upon whom Tom’s fearless bearing had made an impression.

“I will inquire if any of the servants went into your room,” said Mrs. Merton. “If not, I must conclude that Jane took it.”

Inquiry was made, but it appeared evident that no servant had entered the room. Tom had made the bed and attended to the chamber-work alone. Mrs. Merton was therefore confirmed in her suspicions. She summoned Tom once more, and offered to forgive her if she would make confession and restitution.

“I didn’t steal the money,” said Tom, indignantly. “I’ve told you that before.”

“Unless you give it up, I cannot consent to have you remain longer in my house.”

“All right!” said Tom, defiantly. “I don’t want to stay if that’s what you think of me.”

She turned and left Mrs. Merton. Five minutes later she was in the street, going she knew not whither. She was so angry at the unfounded suspicions which had been cast upon her, that she felt glad to go. But after a while she began to think of the sudden change in her fortunes. For three months she had possessed a comfortable home, been well fed and lodged, and had been rapidly making up the deficiencies in her education. She had really tried to soften the roughness and abruptness of her manners, and become a good girl, hoping to win the approbation of her good friend, the captain, when he should return from his voyage. Now it was all over. She had lost her home, and must again wander about with no home but the inhospitable street.

“It isn’t my fault,” thought Tom, with a sigh. “I couldn’t give back the money when I didn’t take it.”