"Neville and Flagg, I want to speak to you. Will you come into the junior recitation-room?" said Seabrooke, as soon after supper as he could find opportunity of speaking apart to the two terrified culprits.

Fain would the guilty boys have refused, but they dared not; and they followed Seabrooke to the place indicated, where he closed the door and, turning, confronted them.

"Lewis Flagg and Percy Neville," he said, sternly, and his voice seemed to carry as much weight and authority as that of Dr. Leacraft himself when he had occasion to administer some severe reproof, "I suppose that you are striving to annoy me in this manner in revenge for my detection of your deliberate infringement of rules last night, but your tricks have recoiled upon your own heads, although even now I will spare you any farther disgrace and punishment if you will make restitution at once, for you do not know the extent of the crime of which you have been guilty. Robbing the mail is an offence which is punished by heavy penalties. You, Lewis, were seen to take a letter from among those which Tony carried to the post-office; you, Percy, standing by and not interfering, even if you were not aiding and abetting. No matter who told me; you were seen; but it is looked upon as a school-boy trick, and, by my request, will not be spoken of if you return the letter without delay. Nor shall I betray you. Lewis, where is that letter? For your own sake, give it to me at once. You do not know what you have done."

Lewis would have braved it out, would perhaps even have denied taking the letter, for he was not at all above telling a lie; but he could not tell how far evidence would be given against him, and, at least, immunity from farther punishment was held forth to him and his fellow-culprit.

But—restitution! Percy, as he knew, had followed out his instructions and put the letter in the fire.

"I'm sorry," he said, with a forced laugh, but with his voice faltering; "but we had no idea the letter was of special importance. We thought it was to the doctor about last night, and we only meant to keep it back for a day or two and—and—well, when you made such a row about it—Percy—Percy burned it up. But to call it 'robbing the mail—'"

He was stopped by the change in Seabrooke's face.

"You burned it!" he almost shouted, forgetting the caution he had hitherto observed in lowering his voice so that it might not be heard by any one who might be outside the door. For one instant he stared at the two startled boys, looking from one to the other as if he could not believe the evidence of his ears. "You burned it!" he repeated, in a lower tone; then, covering his face with his hands, he bent his head upon the table before him with something very like a groan. When he raised his head and uncovered his face again he was deadly pale.

"There were two hundred dollars in that letter," he said; "you have not only stolen and destroyed my letter, but also all that sum of money."

Stolen! All that money!

They were sufficiently appalled now, these two reckless, thoughtless boys; Percy to an even great degree than his more unprincipled comrade.

Lewis was the first to find his voice.

"There was not! You're joking! You're only trying to frighten us," he said, although in his inmost soul he was convinced that this was no joking matter, no mere attempt to punish them by arousing their fears. Seabrooke's agitation was not assumed, that was easy to be seen.

Then followed a long and terrible pause, while the three boys, the injured and the injuring, stood gazing at one another. Then, despite his wrongs, the unutterable terror in the faces of the latter touched Seabrooke, especially in the case of Percy, for whom he had a strong liking; for the boy had many lovable traits, notwithstanding the weakness of his character.

"What can we do?" faltered Percy, at last.

"What will you do?" asked Lewis, almost in the same breath.

Trembling and anxious, the two culprits stood before the young man, scarcely older than themselves, who had become their victim and was now their accuser and their judge, in whose hands lay their sentence.

"Wait, I must think a minute," he said, willing, out of the kindness of his noble heart, to spare them ruin and disgrace, and yet scarcely seeing his way clear to it.

"Listen," he said, after some moments' pondering. "You thought that letter was to Dr. Leacraft, you say, giving an account of last night. Mr. Merton, who is disabled, as you know, asked me to write to the doctor; but I begged him to let me off and to ask one of the professors to do it. That letter you destroyed was to my father, and, as I told you, contained two hundred dollars in money—money earned by myself—money which I must have and which you must restore. Give it back to me—I will wait till after the Easter holidays for it—and this matter shall go no farther. No one but myself knows that the letter contained money; only one saw you take it out, and that one will be silent if I ask it. I will write out a confession and acknowledgment for you both to sign. Bring me, after the holidays or before, each your own share of the money and I will destroy that paper; but if you fail, I will carry it to the doctor and he must require it of your friends. I will not—I cannot be the loser through your wickedness and dishonesty. If you refuse to sign I shall go to Mr. Merton now and to the doctor as soon as he returns. I do not know if I am quite right in offering to let you off, even upon such conditions; but if I can help it I will not ruin you and cause your expulsion from the school, which, I know, would follow the discovery of your guilt."

Percy, overwhelmed, was speechless; but Lewis answered after a moment's pause, during which Seabrooke waited for his answer:

"How are we to raise the money?"

"I do not know," answered Seabrooke, "that is your affair. I worked hard for mine and earned it; you have taken it from me and must restore it—how, is for you to determine. If your friends must know of this, and I suppose that it is only through them that you can repay me, it seems to me that it would be better for you to make a private confession to them than to risk that which will probably follow if Dr. Leacraft knows of it. Are you ready to abide by my terms?"

"You will give us till—" stammered Lewis, seeing no loophole of escape, but, as he afterwards told Percy, hoping that something "would turn up" if they could gain time.

"Till Easter—after the holidays—no longer," answered Seabrooke. "I know very well that you could hardly raise so much at a moment's notice; so, although it is a bitter disappointment not to have it now, I will wait till then if you agree to sign the paper which I will have ready this evening after study hour. Quick now; the bell will ring in two minutes."

What could they do? Seabrooke was evidently inexorable, and they knew well that he could not be expected to bear this loss.

"Yes, I will sign it," said the thoroughly cowed Percy. But Lewis suddenly flashed up and answered impudently:

"How are we to know that the money was in that letter?"

"I can prove it," answered Seabrooke, quietly; "and, Lewis Flagg, I can prove something more. I tested the water that was in my carafe last night, and found that it had been tampered with. I know the object now, and have discovered who bought the drug at the apothecary's. Do you comprehend me? If the doctor hears of one thing he will hear of all."

Utterly subdued now, Lewis stammered his promise to comply with the young tutor's request.

"One question," said Seabrooke, as the two younger boys turned to leave the room. "How did you come to take a letter directed to my father for one addressed to Dr. Leacraft?"

"I don't know," replied Percy, at whom he was looking. "I didn't look at it particularly, but just put it in the stove when Lewis handed it to me and told me to do it. We saw you writing for ever so long, and thought that thick letter was to the doctor. We are—were in such a hurry, you see."

"And I am sure Leacraft and Seabrooke are not so very different when one is in a hurry," said Lewis.

"I see," said Seabrooke; "you made up your minds that the letter was to the doctor, and were so afraid of being caught at your mean trick that you did not take time to make sure. There's the study bell."

The confession and acknowledgment of their indebtedness was signed that night by both of the guilty boys.

And this was the story which the sensitive, honorable Lena, the faithful old Hannah had read—Percy's letter, which had commenced:

"DEAR LENA,

"I am in the most awful scrape any boy ever was in, and you are the only one who can help me out of it. If you can't there is nothing for me but to be expelled from the school and arrested and awfully disgraced, with all the rest of the family; and the worst is that Russell will be so cut up about it—you know his Royal Highness always holds his head so high, especially about anything he thinks is shabby—and I am afraid it will make him worse again. As for the mother! words could not paint her if she hears about it. And if the doctor gets hold of it!! I've told you how strict he is and what the rules are. If it hadn't been an iron-clad place, I shouldn't have been sent here. I hate these private schools where one can't do a thing without being found out. Well, here goes; you must hear about it, and it is a bad business."

Then followed, in school-boy language, an account of the whole disgraceful transaction. A "bad business," indeed; even worse it appeared to the young sister and the old nurse than it did apparently to Percy.

"And now, dear Lena," he continued, "there's no one but you who can help me. Lewis Flagg is going to have his share. He has a watch that was his father's, a very valuable one, and his older brother wants it awfully, and told him long ago he would give him a hundred dollars for it; he has money of his own, the brother has, and Lewis says it isn't half what the watch is worth; but he'll have to let it go. So he's all right.

"But what am I to do? I have no such watch. I have nothing I could sell without mamma and papa finding it out, and think of the row there would be if they did. You are my only hope, Lena, and you might do something for me. At any rate, think of Russell. Havn't you something you could sell? Or—I do not like very much to ask you, but what can a fellow in such a scrape do?—couldn't you ask Uncle Horace to let you have it? I am sure he owes you something for saving his house from being burnt up, and things would have been a great deal worse if you hadn't found it out and been so brave; and besides, he thinks so much of you since he will do anything for you, and you can just tell him you want it for a private purpose. He'll give it to you; it's only twenty pounds, Lena, and what is twenty pounds to him? what is it to any of our people, only one wouldn't dare to ask papa or mamma for it. We wouldn't get it if we did, and everything would have to come out then; they never trust any one and would know. Only get it for me, dear Lena, and save me and save Russell, too. You have from now till after the Easter holidays; and think what you'll save me from! Oh, dear! I wish I'd never seen Lewis Flagg. He don't care a bit, so that he sees the way out of his own scrape. As for that solemn prig, Seabrooke, who you'd think was one of the grown masters with his uppish airs, well, never mind, I suppose he has let us off easy on the whole, if I only raise my share of the money; and he is honor bright about it and don't even act as if we two had done anything worse than the others. Oh! do think of some way, and try Uncle Horace. I know he'll prove all right, and you see we never meant to do this.

"Your affectionate brother,

"PERCY H. NEVILLE.

"Oh, I forgot, how are the feet?

"Save Russell!"

The shock of the whole thing; the disobedience and rebellion against rules; the disgraceful theft of the letter; its destruction; the peril in which Percy himself stood—all faded into comparative insignificance with the risk for her adored elder brother. Absolute quiet, freedom from all worry and anxiety during his protracted convalescence had been peremptorily insisted upon by his physicians, and it had proved before this that any excitement not only retarded his recovery, but threw him back. That the knowledge of Percy's guilt could be kept from Russell if it came to the ears of her father and mother never occurred to her, and beyond words did she dread its effect upon him. She knew that the news of her own serious injuries a few weeks since had been very hurtful to him, and now her chief thought was for him.

She lost sight altogether of the contemptible meanness of Percy's appeal to her—a helpless girl—to rescue him from the consequences of his own worse than folly, but she was bitterly stung by his suggestion—nay, almost demand—that she should ask from their kind and indulgent uncle the means of satisfying the justly outraged Seabrooke; the uncle who had opened his heart and home to them, whom she credited with every known virtue, and for whose good opinion and approbation she looked more eagerly than she did for those of any other human being, even the beloved brother Russell. No, no; she would never ask him for such a thing, that honorable, high-minded, hero-uncle, with his scorn for everything that was contemptible or mean; "fussy," Percy had called him, about such matters.

Nor did it occur to her that in his selfish desire to secure her aid, Percy had perhaps exaggerated the risk to himself—the risk of his arrest and public disgrace, which would reflect upon the family.

Poor little girl! In her inexperience and alarm she did not reflect that it was not at all probable that Percy would be arrested, even though he should not be able to comply with Seabrooke's just demands; and all manner of direful possibilities presented themselves to her mind. Little wonder was it that she was perfectly overwhelmed, or that mental excitement had prostrated her again and brought on a return of her fever.

Nor was Hannah less credulous. She magnified the danger for Percy as much as the young sister did, although her fears were chiefly for the culprit himself. She had the means of relieving the boy's embarrassment if they were but in her own hands, but she had put the greater part of these in her master's care for investment, and she could not obtain any large sum of money without application to him. And, like Lena, she was afraid of exciting some inquiry or suspicion if she did so. The poor old soul stood almost alone in the world, having neither chick nor child, kith nor kin left to her, save one bad and dissipated nephew whom she had long since, by the advice of her master, cast off. If she asked Mr. Neville for the sum necessary to help Percy out of his difficulty, he would, she felt confident, suspect that she was about to give it to this reprobate nephew, and would remonstrate.

Besides the accumulated wages in her master's hands she had one other resource, quite a sum, which she carried about with her; a number of bright, golden guineas tied in a small bag which she wore fastened about her waist, and which was really a burden to her, since she lived in constant fear of losing it. But this was for a purpose dear to old Hannah's heart, namely, her own funeral expenses and the erection of what she considered a suitable head-stone for herself after she should have done with life. She would not trust this precious gold to any bank or company, lest it should fail and leave her without the means for what she considered a fitting monument for herself. Within the bag was also an epitaph, composed by herself, which was to be put upon the proposed gravestone. For Hannah had no mean opinion of her own merits, and this set her forth as an epitome of many Christian graces, reading thus:

"Here lies the mortal body of Hannah Achsah Stillwell which she was hed nurse in the family of Howard Neville eskire for years and brung up mostly by hand his children and never felt she done enuf for them not sparin herself with infantile elements walkin nites and the like, pashunt and gentle not cross-grained like some which the poor little things they can't help theirselves teethin and the like, respeckful to her betters knoin her place, kind to them beneth her—which she was much thort of by all above and below her—and respected by her ekals. Which to her Gabriel shall say in fittin time:

"Well done good and faithful servant
Come to the skys
Stranger read this pious lesson
Go and do likewise."

This gem she had read in turn to each of her nurslings as they came to what she considered a fitting age to appreciate it; and they had regarded it with great awe and admiration, till they outgrew it and began to consider it as a joke. Not to Hannah, however, did any one of them confide the change in his or her views, although they made merry over it among themselves; and Harold and Elsie still looked upon it as a most touching and fitting tribute to the merits of their faithful old nurse, albeit it had been composed and arranged by herself.

Hannah had also frequently found the bag and its contents an incentive to well-doing, or an effective and gentle means of coercion, as upon any rare symptoms of rebellion or mischief which would occasionally arise within the nursery precincts, in spite of iron rules and severe penalties, she was wont to detach the bag from its hiding-place and, retiring to a corner, would count the gold and read over the future epitaph, murmuring in sepulchral tones, befitting such a lugubrious subject, that she should soon have need of both.

This course had generally sufficed to bring the small rebel to terms at once, and it would promise to be good if she would only consent to live and continue her care of the nursery. And now, how could she make up her mind to sacrifice this cherished sum even for the reckless, selfish boy whom she loved? It had been dedicated to that one purpose, and it had never before entered her thoughts to divert it to any other. She was devoted to each one and all of her charges, past and present; but for no other one than Percy would she ever have thought of resigning this gold. Not to relieve the sickening terror and anxiety of the poor little invalid; not to save the whole family from the disgrace which she apprehended, would she have entertained the slightest thought of doing so; but for the sake of her beloved scrapegrace! Could she resolve to do it, was the question which was now agitating her mind. If Hannah was worried she was apt to be cross, and for the next day or two she was captious and exacting beyond anything within the past experience of the nursery, driving Letitia to the verge of rebellion, and exciting the open-eyed wonder of the pattern Elsie. Over Lena she crooned and hovered, petting and coddling her, and longing to speak some words of hope and comfort, but not daring to do so lest she should betray herself and the dishonorable way in which she had become possessed of the child's secret.

Colonel Rush was seated in his library one afternoon when there came a knock at the door; and being bidden to enter, the portiere was drawn aside and old Hannah appeared, her face wearing an unusually solemn and portentous expression.

"Beggin' your pardon, Colonel," she said, dropping her curtsey, "but I'm not much hacquainted with these Hamerican monies, and would you be so good as to tell me the worth of twenty-one gold guineas in the dollars they uses in this country. More shame to 'em, say I, that they didn't 'old by what was their hown when they was hunder the rule of hour gracious lady, Queen Victoria, but 'ad to go changin' an' pesterin' them what 'asn't no partickler hacquaintance with harithmetic."

Hannah was a privileged character, and sometimes expressed her opinions with some freedom in the presence of her superiors.

The colonel did not think it worth while to enlighten her on the subject of American history, or to explain that the United States, and even the early colonies, had never been beneath the rule of Queen Victoria; but he gave her the information she desired.

"Twenty-one golden guineas would be somewhere from a hundred and five to a hundred and ten or fifteen dollars, Hannah," he said; "it might be even a little more; that would depend upon what is called the price of gold. A guinea would be worth something over five dollars in American money at any time, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always beyond the five. Why?"—knowing of the secret fund for future expenses, the story having been told to him by his nephews,—"have you gold of which you wish to dispose? If so, I will do my best to sell it for you at advantage."

"No, thank'ee, sir," she answered. "I'm only fain to know what it would fetch," and with another curtsey she was gone, not daring either to wait for farther questioning or to ask the gentleman to exchange her gold for her. Indeed, upon the latter point she had not, hitherto, at all made up her mind. But now it seemed to her that it was clearly intended that she should make the sacrifice.

"Seems as if it was a callin' of Providence," she murmured to herself, as she slowly and thoughtfully mounted the stairs and returned to the nursery; and had any one known the circumstances he might have seen that the old nurse's resolution respecting that gold was wavering; "seems as if it was a callin' of Providence. 'Twould just be a little more than the poor boy needs—oh, will he never learn to say no when it's befittin 'he should!—just a little more, and it do seem as if it were put hinto my 'ands to do it. An' I s'pose I might believe the Lord will take care of them banks and railroads an' things where the master 'as put what he's hinvested for me. I don't know as I put so much faith in this hinvestin', you never know what'll come of it with the ups and downs of them things. Dear, dear! if I 'ad it now there needn't be no trouble about Master Percy. But"—feeling for the precious bag—"I think I couldn't rest heasy in my grave if I 'ad the statoo of the queen 'erself hover me if I'd let the child I brought up come to this disgrace an' 'im the puny, weakly baby he was, too, when I took 'im, the fine, sturdy lad he is now if he is maybe a bit too soon led hastray. But what can you hexpect of a lad when he's kept hunder the way hour boys is. An' he's not a bad 'eart, 'asn't Master Percy, an' maybe he might put up a monyment and a hepithet 'imself for me if he did but know I'd done that for 'im. It's a risk, too; Percy's no 'ead on his shoulders, an' I might be left with no tombstone an' no hepithet."

To one who knew Hannah it might have been easy to see which way the balance was likely to turn; that cherished gold was sure to be taken for Percy's rescue from the difficulty he was in; but she persuaded herself that she had not yet made up her mind about the matter.