“Yes, Susie is right there,” said Christabel. “If you try to be one with the others, and make common cause with them, giving up and forbearing, they never will take such things into their heads.” “And _we_ don’t now,” said Susan cheerily. “Didn’t you hear Sam say nobody but a donkey could think it?” “But Bessie has a secret!” said Annie. Again stout Susan said, “For shame!” “I’ll tell you what my secret is,” began Bessie. “No,” said Susan, “don’t tell it, dear! We’ll trust you without; and Sam will say the same.” Bessie flung her arms round Susan’s neck, as if she only now knew the comfort of her dear good sister. Lessons were resumed; and as soon as these were done, Miss Fosbrook resolved on a thorough search. Some strange fit of mischief or curiosity might have actuated some one, and the money be hidden away; so she brought David out of his cupboard, and with Susan’s help turned out every drawer and locker in the school-room, forbidding the others to touch or assist. They routed out queer nests of broken curiosities, disturbed old dusty dens of rubbish, peeped behind every row of books; but made no discovery worth mentioning, except the left leg of Annie’s last doll, the stuffing of Johnnie’s ball, the tiger out of George’s Noah’s ark, and the first sheet of Sam’s Latin Grammar, all stuffed together into a mouse-hole in the skirting. At dinner Christabel forbade the subject to be mentioned, not only to hinder quarrelsome speeches, but to prevent the loss being talked of among the servants; since she feared that one of them must have committed the theft, and though anxious not to put it into the children’s heads, suspected Rhoda, the little nursery-girl, who was quite a child, and had not long been in the house. Henry ate his dinner in haste, but could not get away till Miss Fosbrook had called him away from the rest, and told him that if he had been playing a trick on his little brother, it was time to put an end to it, before any innocent person fell under suspicion. “I—I’ve been playing no tricks—at least—” “Without any _at least_, Henry, have you hidden the money?” “No.” “You dined in the school-room on Friday. Were the baby-house doors open then!” “I—I’m sure I didn’t notice.” “You didn’t open them to take anything out?” “What should I want with the things in the baby-house?” “Did you, or did you not!” “I—I didn’t—at least—” “In one word, did you open them? yes or no.” “No.” “What time did you go out after eating your dinner?” “Bother! how is one to remember! It’s all nonsense making such a fuss. The children fancied they put in ever so much more than they did, and very likely took out some.” “No; David’s reckoning was accurate. I wrote down all I knew of; and I am sure none was taken out, for early that very morning I had put in a sixpence myself, and the cup was then full of coppers, with that little silver threepenny of David’s with the edge turned up upon the top.”