Mrs. Merton was taken by surprise when she found that Tom had actually gone. Her conviction remained unshaken that she had stolen Mr. Holland’s money, and she considered that she had been forbearing in not causing her arrest.

“Your uncle cannot blame me,” she said to Mary, “for sending her away. He cannot expect me to keep a thief in my house.”

“To be sure not,” said Mary, promptly. “I am glad she has gone. You couldn’t expect much from a girl that was brought up in the streets.”

“That is true. I don’t see, for my part, what your uncle saw in her.”

“Nor I. She’s a rude, hateful thing.”

“She denied taking the money.”

“Of course,” said Mary. “She wouldn’t mind lying any more than stealing.”

Mary felt very much relieved at the way things had turned out. After taking the money, she had become frightened lest in some way suspicion might be directed towards herself. As she had hoped, her fault had been laid to Tom, and now she felt comparatively safe. She had not yet dared to use the money, but thought she might venture to do so soon.

She went up to her bedroom, and, after locking the door, opened her trunk. The four five-dollar bills were carefully laid away in one corner, underneath a pile of clothes. Mary counted them over with an air of satisfaction. Her conscience did not trouble her much as long as the fear of detection was removed.

“Mr. Holland won’t miss the money,” she thought, “and everybody’ll think Jane took it.”

The thought of her own meanness in depriving Tom of a good home, and sending her out into the street without shelter or money, never suggested itself to the selfish girl. She felt glad to be rid of her, and did not trouble herself about any discomforts or privations that she might experience.

Three days later Mary felt that she might venture to buy the pencil which she had so long coveted. Tom’s disappearance was accepted by all in the house as a confirmation of the charge of theft, and no one else was likely to be suspected. Not knowing how much the pencil was likely to cost, Mary took the entire twenty dollars with her. She stopped on her way from school at a jewelry store only a few blocks distant from her mother’s house. She was unwise in not going farther away, since this increased the chances of her detection.

“Let me look at your gold pencils,” she asked, with an air of importance.

The salesman produced a variety of pencils, varying in price.

Mary finally made choice of one that cost twelve dollars.

She paid over the money with much satisfaction, for the pencil was larger and handsomer than those belonging to her companions, which had excited her envy. She also bought a silk chain, to which she attached it, and then hung it round her neck.

Though Mary was not aware of it, her entrance into the jewelry store had been remarked by Mrs. Carver, a neighbor and acquaintance of her mother’s. Mrs. Carver, like some others of her sex, was gifted with curiosity, and wondered considerably what errand had carried Mary into the jeweller’s.

Bent upon finding out, she entered the store and approached the counter.

“What did that young girl buy?” she asked.

“You mean that one who just went out?”

“Yes.”

“A gold pencil-case.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Carver, looking surprised. “How expensive a pencil did she buy?”

“She paid twelve dollars.”

“Will you show me one like it?”

A pencil, precisely similar, was shown Mrs. Carver, the clerk supposing she wished to purchase. But she had obtained all the information she desired.

“I won’t decide to-day,” she said. “I will come in again.”

“There’s some mystery about this,” said Mrs. Carver to herself. “I wonder where Mary got so much money; surely, her mother could not have given it to her. If she did, all I have to say is, that she is very extravagant for a woman that keeps boarders for a living.”

Mrs. Carver was one of those women who feel a very strong interest in the business of others. The friends with whom she was most intimate were most likely to incur her criticism. In the present instance she was determined to fathom the mystery of the gold pencil.

Mary went home with her treasure. Of course she knew that its possession would excite surprise, and she had a story prepared to account for it. She felt a little nervous, but had little doubt that her account would be believed.

As she anticipated, the pencil at once attracted her mother’s attention.

“Whose pencil is that, Mary?” she asked.

“Mine, mother.”

“Yours? Where did you get it?” inquired her mother, in surprise.

“Sue Cameron gave it to me. She’s my bosom friend, you know.”

“Let me see it. It isn’t gold—is it?”

“Yes, it’s solid gold,” said Mary, complacently.

“But I don’t understand her giving you so expensive a present. It must have cost a good deal.”

“So it did. Sue said it cost twelve dollars.”

“Then how came she to give it to you?”

“Oh, her father’s awful rich! Besides, Sue has had another pencil given to her, and she didn’t want but one; so she gave me this.”

“It looks as if it were new.”

“Yes, she has had it only a short time.”

“When did she give it to you?”

“This morning. She promised it to me a week ago,” said Mary, in a matter-of-fact manner which quite deceived her mother.

“She has certainly been very kind to you. She must like you very much.”

“Yes, she does. She likes me better than any of the other girls.”

“Why don’t you invite her to come and see you? You ought to be polite to her, since she is so kind.”

This suggestion was by no means pleasing to Mary. In the first place Sue Cameron was by no means the intimate friend she represented, and in the next, if she called and Mrs. Merton referred to the gift, it would at once let the cat out of the bag, and Mary would be in trouble. Therefore she said, “I’ll invite her, mother, but I don’t think she’ll come.”

“Why not?”

“She lives away up on Fifth Avenue, and is not allowed to make visits without some one of the family. The Camerons are very rich, you know, and stuck up. Only Sue is not.”

“You’d better invite her, however, Mary, since she is such a friend of yours.”

“Yes, I will, only you must not be surprised if she does not come.”

The next afternoon Mrs. Carver dropped in for a call. While she was talking with Mrs. Merton, Mary came into the room. Her gold pencil was ostentatiously displayed.

“How do you do, Mary?” said the visitor. “What a handsome pencil-case you have!”

“One of her school friends gave it to her,” explained Mrs. Merton.

“Indeed!” returned Mrs. Carver, with an emphasis which bespoke surprise.

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Merton, unconsciously. “It was a Miss Cameron, whose father lives on Fifth Avenue. Her father is very rich, and she is very fond of Mary.”

“I should think she was—uncommonly,” remarked Mrs. Carver.

“There’s some secret here,” she thought. “I must find it out.”

“Mary, my dear,” she said, aloud, “come here, and let me look at your pencil.”

Mary advanced reluctantly. There was something in the visitor’s tone that made her feel uncomfortable. It was evident that Mrs. Carver did not accept the account she had given as readily as her mother.

“It is a very handsome pencil,” said Mrs. Carver, after examination. “You are certainly very lucky, Mary. My Grace is not so fortunate. So this Mrs. Cameron lives on Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And her father sends her to a public school. That’s rather singular,—isn’t it?”

“So it is,” said Mrs. Merton. “I didn’t think of that. And the family is very proud too, you say, Mary?”

Mary by this time was quite willing to leave the subject, but Mrs. Carver was not disposed to do so.

“I don’t know why it is,” said Mary. “I suppose they think she will learn more at public schools.”

“Now I think of it,” said Mrs. Carver, meditatively, “this pencil looks very much like one I saw at Bennett’s the other day.”

The color rushed to Mary’s face in alarm. Her mother did not observe it, but Mrs. Carver did. But she quickly recovered herself.

“Perhaps it was bought there,—I don’t know,” she said.

“She carries it off well,” thought Mrs. Carver. “Never mind, I’ll find out some time.”

Mary made some excuse for leaving the room, and the visitor asked:—

“How is that girl getting along whom your brother left with you?”

Mrs. Merton shook her head.

“She’s turned out badly,” she said.

“What has she done?”

“She stole twenty dollars from Mr. Holland’s room. He left his pocket-book on the bureau, and she took out the money.”

“Did she confess it?”

“No, she stoutly denied it. I told her, if she would confess, I would forgive her, and let her stay in the house. But she remained obstinate, and went away.”

“Are you convinced that she took it?” asked Mrs. Carver, who now suspected where the gold pencil came from.

“It could have been no one else. She was in the room, making the beds, and sweeping, in the morning.

“Still, she may have been innocent.”

“Then who could have taken the money?”

“Somebody that wanted a gold pencil,” returned Mrs. Carver, nodding significantly.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Merton, aghast. “You don’t mean to hint that Mary took it?”

“I mean this, that she bought the pencil herself at Bennett’s, as I happen to know. Where she got the money from, you can tell better than I can.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Mrs. Merton, very much perturbed.

“Didn’t you see how she flushed up when I said I had seen a pencil like it at Bennett’s? However, you can ask her.”

Mrs. Merton could not rest now till she had ascertained the truth. Mary was called, and, after an attempt at denial, finally made confession in a flood of tears.

“How could you let me send Jane away on account of your fault?” asked her mother, much disturbed.

“I didn’t dare to own it. You won’t tell, mother?”

“I must return the money to Mr. Holland.”

“You can tell him that it was accidentally found.”

This Mrs. Merton finally agreed to do, not wishing to expose her own child. She was really a kind-hearted woman, and was very sorry for her injustice to Tom.

“What will your uncle say?” she inquired, after Mrs. Carver had gone.

“Don’t tell him,” said Mary. “It’s better for Jane to go, or he would be making her his heiress. Now I shall stand some chance. You can tell him that Jane went away of her own accord.”

Mrs. Merton was human. She thought it only fair that one of her daughters should inherit their uncle’s money in preference to a girl taken from the streets, and silently acquiesced. So the money was restored to Mr. Holland, and he was led to think that Tom had left it behind her, while the real perpetrator of the theft retained her gold pencil, and escaped exposure.