Bessie turned to her reluctantly. "Aye, I'm sorry," she said sullenly. "But he shouldn't fly out at yer without 'earin' a word. 'Ow should I know anythin' about his money? 'Ee locked it up hisself, an' tuk the keys." "An' them suverins," roared John, rattling his stick on the floor; "where did yer get them suverins?" "I got 'em from old Sophy Clarke--leastways, from Sophy Clarke's lawyer. And it ain't no business o' yourn." At this John fell into a frenzy, shouting at her in inarticulate passion, calling her liar and thief. She fronted it with perfect composure. Her fine eyes blazed, but otherwise her face might have been a waxen mask. With her, in this scene, was all the tragic dignity; with him, the weakness and vulgarity. At last the little widow caught her by the arm, and drew her from the door. "Let me take 'im to my place," she pleaded: "it's no good talkin' while 'ee's like 'ee is--not a bit o' good. John--John, dear! you come along wi' me. Shall I get Saunders to come an' speak to yer?" A gleam of sudden hope shot into the old man's face. He had not thought of Saunders; but Saunders had a head; he might unravel this accursed thing. "Aye!" he said, lurching forward, "let's find Saunders--coom along--let's find Saunders." Mary Anne guided him through the door, Bessie standing aside. As the widow passed, she touched Bessie piteously. "Oh, Bessie, yer _didn't_ do it--say yer didn't!" Bessie looked at her dry-eyed and contemptuous. Something in the speaker's emotion seemed to madden her. "Don't yer be a fool, Mary Anne--that's all!" she said scornfully, and Mary Anne fled from her. When the door had closed upon them Bessie came up to the fire, her teeth chattering. She sank down in front of it, spreading out her hands. The children silently crowded up to her; first she pushed them away, then she caught at the child nearest to her, pressed its fair head against her, then again roughly put it aside. She was accustomed to chatter with them, scold them and slap them; but to-night they were uneasily dumb. They looked at her with round eyes; and at last their looks annoyed her. She told them to go to bed, and they slunk away, gaping at the open box on the stairs, and huddling together overhead, all on one bed, in the bitter cold, to whisper to each other. Isaac was a stern parent; Bessie a capricious one; and the children, though they could be riotous enough by themselves, were nervous and easily cowed at home. Bessie, left alone, sat silently over the fire, her thin lips tight-set. She would deny everything--_everything_. Let them find out what they could. Who could prove what was in John's box when he left it? Who could prove she hadn't got those half-crowns in change somewhere?