"What shilling is that on the master's desk?" repeated Samuel Lynn to William when he returned into his own room, where William was. "I put a shilling on the desk this morning," replied William. "I found it in the waste-paper basket." "Thee go in, then, and tell the master." William did so. "The shilling rolled out of the waste-paper basket, sir," said he, entering the counting-house and approaching Mr. Ashley. Mr. Ashley was remarkably exact in his accounts. He had missed no shilling, and he did not think it was his. "What should bring a shilling in the waste-paper basket?" he asked. "It may have rolled out of your own pocket." William could have smiled at the remark. A shilling out of _his_ pocket! "Oh, no, sir, it did not." Mr. Ashley sat looking earnestly at William--as the latter fancied. In reality he was buried deep in his own thoughts. But William felt uncomfortable under the survey, and his face flushed to a glow. Why should he feel uncomfortable? What should cause the flush? This. Since Janey's death, some months ago now, their circumstances had been more straitened than ever; of course, there had been expenses attending it, and Mrs. Halliburton was paying them off weekly. Bread and potatoes, and a little milk, would often be their food. On the previous night Jane had a sick headache. Some tea would have been acceptable, but she had neither tea nor money in the house; and she was firm in her resolution not to purchase on trust. On this morning early, when William rose, he found his mother down before him, at her work as usual. Her head felt better, she said; it might get quite well if she had only some tea; but she had not, and--there was an end of it. William went out, ardently wishing (in the vague profitless manner that he might have wished for Aladdin's lamp) that he had only a shilling to procure some for her. When, half an hour after, this shilling rolled out of the waste-paper basket, as he was shaking it in Mr. Ashley's counting-house, a strong temptation--not to take it, but to wish that he might take it, that it was not wrong to take it--rushed over him. He put it down on the desk and turned from it--turned from the temptation, for the shilling seemed to scorch his fingers. The remembrance of this wish--it sounded to him like a dishonest one--had brought the vivid colour to his face, under what he thought was Mr. Ashley's scrutiny. That gentleman observed it. "What are you turning red for?" This crowned all. William's face changed to scarlet. Mr. Ashley was surprised. He came to the conclusion that some mystery must be connected with the shilling--something wrong. He determined to fathom it. "Why do you look confused?" he resumed. "It was only at my own thoughts, sir." "What are they? Let me hear them." William hesitated. "I would rather not tell them, sir." "But I would rather you did." Mr. Ashley spoke quietly, as usual; but there lay command in the quietest tone of Mr. Ashley's.