At breakfast, seated beside her, I forgot, and wholly, Uncle Job and the errand on which I had come. How beautiful she was, I thought. Almost a woman, too, in height, and with the grace of one. Surely there never was any one so fair and good as she. Pressing her hand, I wondered that I could have remained so long away, or that another’s troubles, should have been needed to bring me back; but so it was always. Loving her, I was content, or thought I was, when away, knowing her thoughts, like mine, were ever such as we would have shared had we been together. Thus it had been from the first, neither change of place nor period making any difference to us, but constant in all things, each day only added to our love. Nor, as I have told you, was this affection in anything like that of children; nor of brother or sister, but of man and woman. This Mr. Seymour knew, and since that day at Wild Plum had treated me in all things as if I were his son and a man grown. Of the reason for this, remembering my youth, I do not know, unless indeed something in his own life led him to view the matter differently from what other men would have done in his place. Thus all things contributed to make the bond between us as strong as the affections of two loving and trusting hearts could make it; and thus it continued, each day only adding to its strength. "Gilbert’s come back to see if he can aid his Uncle Job," Mr. Seymour remarked, as he arose from the table. "Maybe you can help him, Puss. Two such wise young heads ought to be equal to most anything. He has lost no time in finding out everything I know"; and with that he kissed her and went out, turning at the door to smile upon her, half in banter, half in earnest. "Yes, Constance," I said, turning to her, "I’ve come back to help Uncle Job, but how, I can’t see." "I am sure you will be able to help him if any one can, Gilbert," she answered, with simple trust; "I have thought of him so much because of you, and knowing how distressed you would be when you came to hear of his misfortune." "That’s like you, Constance, but what can we do? Who could have stolen the money and yet have covered it up so well?" "There were but two who knew he had the money—papa and Mr. Rathe. Papa didn’t take it, we know. Then if he did not, Rathe must, and that I believe." "He never left the house, your father says, and so how could he have taken it?" I answered. "Papa thinks so, but how do we know. He could have left the house easily enough during the night without any one knowing it, I’m sure." "Oh, you sweet child!" I cried, my heart filling. For from the moment Mr. Seymour had mentioned Rathe’s name I believed him to be the thief, and no other. "How can we prove it, though, for no one suspects him, not even your father," I added, looking at her to see how she took it. "I don’t know about that. Papa’s a man, and doesn’t always say what he thinks; but I know he doesn’t like Rathe any more than we do."