‘If ye’ll take this, miss, ye can let yoself in, an’ ye can lave it at the lodge wid Mrs. Donovan whin ye’re goin’ back.’ ‘Oh, thank you, Brown!’ says Susan joyfully; and diving into her pocket, she produces twopence (it is quite a sum for Susan, whose pennies are very scarce), and gives it to him, an instinct born with her—a sort of pride—compelling her to reward the underling. And yet she had refused to give Tommy—the baby, the youngest of all, and the dearest to her of the children after Bonnie—a halfpenny out of that twopence only this morning. ‘Thank you, miss,’ says Brown, with considerably more gratitude than he would have shown another if she had given him half a crown, and Susan, who had paid for the key quite as much for her own sake as for Jacky’s, goes on her way rejoicing. Yes, the gate is locked. Susan, having unlocked it, carefully removes the key, locks it on the other side, and goes down the broad, beautiful, scented path with Jacky beside her. Some of the houses are near, but not so worthy of notice as those that come after, and through these they hurry to the great glass ones beyond—where the roses are all a-growing, all a-blowing, in magnificent profusion—that are always kept up in a very perfect state, though the master of them be in the Soudan or North America, or among the highest peaks of the Andes. Between these two sets of houses runs a wall, now laden with cherry-trees in full fruit, and as Susan and her brother emerge from the seedling-house into the freer air, she catches sight of something that brings her to a standstill. Against the wall where the cherries are growing stands a ladder, and on the top of it—a man. Now, Susan knows all the gardeners at Crosby Park, and even those beneath them, and certainly this man is not one of them. She turns and retreats on Jacky, who is just behind her, and for a moment fear covers her. She has never been brought face to face with a thief before—few girls have been—and a desire to fly is the thought uppermost in her breast. She glances upward fearfully to the figure on the top of the wall, who is hastily pulling off the cherries and dropping them into the basket he has slung on to the top of the ladder. She draws her breath quickly. Could anything be more premeditated—could anything show more plainly what a determined rogue he is? And to-day of all days! A holiday, when, of course, he knew that all the gardeners would be away, and the place safe to him! No doubt he had climbed the outside wall—thieves can do anything—and had found the ladder inside with which to rob poor Mr. Crosby, who is now goodness knows how many miles away.