"Tut! the cakes will do them no harm," said he carelessly. "There are but a dozen or the like." Margaret went first towards the garden, carrying the plate, Clare and Blanche following. As they reached the terrace, Lucrece overtook them, going on about a yard in advance of Margaret. When the latter turned her head to call Blanche to "come on," Clare, to her utter amazement, saw Lucrece stop, and, as Margaret passed her, silently and deftly dip her hand into the plate, and transfer two of the little cakes to her pocket. The action was so promptly and delicately performed, leaving Margaret entirely unconscious of it, that in all probability it was not the first of its kind. Clare was intensely shocked. Was Lucrece a thief? Margaret sat down on a grassy bank, and counted out the cakes. There were eleven. "How is this?" she asked, looking perplexed. "There were thirteen of these, I am well assured, for I counted them o'er as I came out of hall. Who has taken two?" "Not I," said Clare shortly. Blanche shook her curly head; Lucrece, silently but calmly, held out empty hands. So, thought Clare, she is a liar as well, as a thief. "They must be some whither," said Margaret, quietly; "and I know where it is like: Lucrece, I do verily believe they are in thy pocket." "Dost thou count me a thief, Meg?" retorted Lucrece. "By no manner of means, without thou hast the chance," answered Margaret satirically, but still quietly. "Very well,--thou hast chosen thy share,--take it. Three for each of us three, and two over. Shall we give them to Jack? What say ye?" "Jack!" cried Blanche, dancing about on the grass. Clare assented shyly, and she and Blanche received their three cakes each. "Must I have none, Meg?" demanded Lucrece in an injured tone. "Oh ay! keep what thou hast," said Margaret, calmly munching the first of her own three cakes. "Who said I had any?" "I said it. I know thee, as Father saith to Jack. Thou hast made thy bed,--go lie thereon." Lucrece marched slowly away, looking highly indignant; but before she was quite out of sight, the others saw her slip her hand into her pocket, bring out one of the little cakes, and bite it in two. Margaret laughed when she saw Clare's look of shocked solemnity. "I said she had them,--the sly-boots!" was her only comment. Clare finished her cakes, and ran off to Barbara, who, seated under the ash-tree, had witnessed the whole scene. "Bab, I will not play me with yonder Lucrece. She tells lies, and is a thief." "Marry La'kin, my poor lamb!" sighed Barbara. "My mind sorely misgiveth me that I have brought thee into a den of thieves. Eh me, if the good Master had but lived a while longer! Of a truth, the Lord's ways be passing strange." Clare had run off again to Margaret, and the last sentence was not spoken to her. But it was answered by somebody. "Which of the Lord's ways, Barbara Polwhele?"