"Not the least bit in the world," said the bewildered woman, trying to keep back a rash of words from her lips. "The master thought the world of our dear Miss Annie, and doubtless gave it to her the day after she returned from school; for she has a pretty, coaxing way; and you know well, Mr Dawson, that young things like our Annie want their bits of finery." "To be sure," said Dawson. "I gave her the money without a thought." "But your bill--I was under the impression that your bill for the last six months was met." "Bless you, madam! you may rest easy about that. It was Miss Annie herself brought me the money and asked me to give her a receipt for the bill. She brought it two days later in five-pound notes. You have the receipt, haven't you?" "To be sure--at least, I suppose so. I am all in a bewilderment!" said the good woman. She certainly looked so, and Dawson glanced after her as she left the shop with a very solemn expression of face. Just as she crossed the threshold she turned back to say: "You will have another cheque instead of that as soon as the will is proved. You understand, of course, that there is a short delay always on account of those blessed lawyers when a death takes place," said Mrs Shelf. "Yes, madam, I quite understand that; and I think the best thing for me to do is to add the twenty pounds to my bill which you have asked me to send you." "Yes, perhaps you are right, Mr Dawson," said Mrs Shelf, and she got soberly and laboriously back into the gig. During her drive home Mrs Shelf did not utter a single word. To say that she was puzzled, amazed, frightened, would but inadequately explain the situation. Her heart beat with dull fear. Annie had cashed her uncle's cheque--that cheque which had been drawn to pay the butcher's bill. Annie had cashed it for herself and had not paid the bill. But, again, Annie had paid the bill two days later--not with the cheque, but with Bank of England notes. Really, the thing was too inexplicable. It did not look at all nice; Mrs Shelf, somehow, felt that it did not, but of course the child would explain. She would speak to her about it, and Annie would tell her. At present she could not understand it. Annie had taken twenty pounds of her uncle's money; but then, again, Annie had restored it, and almost immediately. "It's enough to split anybody's brain even to think the thing over," was the good woman's comment as, stiff and cold and tired and inexplicably saddened, she entered the desolate Rectory. Rover, the watch-dog, had made no noise when Annie had slipped away. He was still in the yard, and ran joyfully to meet the old woman. She stopped for a minute to fondle him, but she had no heart to-night even to pet Rover.