Cuthbert's mood had changed. 'There's little enough to tell,' he answered quietly, 'only that I've enlisted. After all, I'm a soldier's son, and I know the life. I've always had a hankering after it, as you know.' 'But my father, what has he done? Try and tell me.' 'It's all along of this money. He's been scraping it and hoarding it together for ever so long. He thought no one knew about it. No more they did. But two days ago he missed it.' Cuthbert had begun quietly, but now his eyes were lighting again, and his voice quickened. 'And he thinks I took it. _I_ to take his money! and your father, too.' 'He couldn't think so. You must have made some great mistake.' 'Not I. I saw what he was at well enough. Don't you think I know he's always hated me? You know it too, Will, though you've tried so hard to keep me from finding it out. He was mad when he found his money gone, and he spoke out then pretty plain--as he never did before.' 'He didn't say you took it.' 'Not at first--not straight out, till I asked him what he meant--he did then. I wouldn't stay another day after that. You wouldn't have had me stay, Will?' 'There were others there,' he went on again, 'when he accused me of knowing more of the money than I cared to say. Hildred was there.' 'She didn't believe it of you.' 'God bless her, no.' I put my hand on his arm. 'Cuthbert, you ought to stay here, don't you see?' He looked at me. 'You mean they'll say I've gone off with the money. No, they won't say that. I thought I'd told you the money was found again.' 'Found!' 'Yes, but that made no odds. I can't stay where I've been served as your father served me.' 'But who found it?' 'The money? Oh, it was all Granny's doing.' Cuthbert smiled. 'Poor Granny, she had taken the teapot away, not knowing.' 'What did father say?' 'I don't know. I didn't stay to hear. I tell you it was all one, after what he had thought of me. Will, I, that he took in--though that was your doing and your mother's, not his. I, that had grown up in his house and thought I was like his son. I wish he had turned me out of doors when your mother died. Maybe some day I may feel as grateful to him for his charity as I ought to be. I can't now. 'I did not mean to say aught of this to you, old chap,' he went on sadly. 'I ought not, only I can't help it. It wouldn't any of it have happened if you had been at home.' 'Then let me get you off,' I said eagerly. 'Let me do something for you.' 'Yes, that you shall, but not that. What a mercy it is that you have got home in time! It wasn't all this I wanted to tell you about. I was going to write you a letter, but talking is much handier.' 'And you must go?' 'Yes.' He took a shilling out of his pocket and held it up in the dim light with a half-laugh. 'Never mind that; it's done. Will, what I wanted to say to you besides good-bye was this.' His voice had grown grave enough now. 'I have something to leave in your charge.'