Sophia Jane looked up from her book, which Susan now saw to be a French grammar, and said, holding out her hand:

"Give it to me."

"You ought to say 'Thank you,'" remarked Susan in the reproving voice she often used to her companion.

Sophia Jane counted the coins carefully, going twice through the pennies to be sure there were the right number. Then she said shortly:

"It's all right."

"Of course it's right!" cried Susan indignantly. But it was not of the least use to be angry with Sophia Jane; she was now dropping the pieces of money one by one into her pocket with a thoughtful air, and seemed hardly to know that Susan was there. The latter waited a moment and then said:

"Shall I ask Aunt Hannah if we may go to Miss Powter's this afternoon?"

"What for?" asked Sophia Jane.

"What for!" repeated Jane in extreme astonishment. "Why, of course, now you've got the money, you'll go and buy the head."

Sophia Jane took up her grammar again and bent her eyes doggedly upon it.

"I'm not going to buy a head," she answered.

This decided reply was so unexpected that for the moment Susan was speechless; for on the whole Sophia Jane had seemed to look forward to the purchase, and they had made many plans together about it, so that she had come to think of it as a settled thing. It made her feel injured and disappointed to be thrust out of the matter in this sudden way, for if the head was not to be bought how would Sophia Jane spend the money? She evidently had some secret plan of her own in which Susan was not to share. With a rising colour in her face she said at last:

"I don't think that's fair."

"It's my money, and I shall do as I like with it," was Sophia Jane's only reply.

"But I shouldn't have given it you," said Susan hotly, "unless you were going to buy a head."

Sophia Jane chuckled. "Well, I've got it now," she said, "and I shall keep it."

"What a naughty, selfish, disagreeable little girl she was!" thought Susan as she stood looking angrily at her.

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.

"That's a secret," said Sophia Jane, c.h.i.n.king the money gently in her pocket.

"I believe," said Susan, now irritated beyond endurance, "that you mean to spend it all on Billy Stokes' day."

Billy Stokes was a man who came round once a week selling sweetmeats, and it was Sophia Jane's custom to spend her pennies in this way when she had any.

"If you do," continued Susan, getting more cross every moment, "you'll be dreadfully greedy, and most likely you'll make yourself ill."

Sophia Jane only smiled gently and settled herself more comfortably in her chair.

"And I suppose you remember," said Susan, whose voice became louder and more defiant with each sentence, "that if you don't get the head you can't have the bonnet."

The last word was almost shrieked, for she had now quite lost her temper, and at this moment Margaretta looked into the room. Now it was always taken for granted by the household that in any dispute Sophia Jane must be in the wrong; so now Margaretta came at once to this conclusion, in spite of Susan's hot and angry looks.

"How can you be so naughty, Sophia Jane," she said, "as to quarrel with a sweet-tempered child like Susan? You must have been very unkind and tiresome to vex her so much."

Neither of the little girls spoke, for Susan was still feeling too angry, and Sophia Jane took a scolding as a matter of course.

"If you don't say you're sorry," pursued Margaretta, "I sha'n't take you out with me this afternoon. I don't wish to have a sulky little girl with me. Susan shall go alone."

There was no word from Sophia Jane, or even any sign of having heard this speech. At another time Susan would have said something in her defence, for she knew this blame to be entirely unjust. But just now she was so vexed with her that she kept silence, and allowed Margaretta to go on without interruption.

"Very well," said the latter, "then you stay at home by yourself. Aunt and Nanna are going to see Mrs Bevis, and Susan and I shall have a walk together. Very likely we should call in at Buzzard's as we come back and have some tarts."

Susan glanced at her companion's face to see how she took this last remark. Buzzard's open tarts were things that Sophia Jane specially liked. Was she vexed? No. One corner of her mouth was tucked in, in a way which looked far more like secret satisfaction. It was very annoying, but after all she could not prefer to be left alone in the dull house that bright day, so most likely she was concealing her disappointment.

Susan herself did not enjoy that walk so much as usual, though the band was playing gay tunes, and the sun shone, and the sea twinkled merrily.

For one thing she felt that she had been unjust to Sophia Jane, and allowed her to be punished for no fault; for, after all, it _was_ her money, and she had a right to do as she liked with it. Only why should she be so perverse and stupid as to have a will of her own, and not to carry out Susan's wishes? What could she possibly be going to do with that half-crown? What could it be that she wanted so much that she was ready to give up all the nice games and plans they had thought of together? As she walked soberly along by Margaretta's side Susan came to the conclusion that it would be best to make no more inquiries about it; she had noticed that Sophia Jane would seldom yield to persuasion and never to force, but sometimes if you left her quite alone she would do what you wished of her own accord. This once settled in her mind she felt more cheerful, but the walk was dull with no one but Margaretta to talk to, the open tarts at Buzzard's had lost their flavour, and she was not at all sorry to get home.

To do Sophia Jane justice she was quite ready to meet Susan's advances in a friendly spirit, and did not seem disposed to bear malice. The little girls played together as usual, and Susan, true to her resolution, made not the smallest reference to the half-crown, but this silence made her think of it all the more. It was, indeed, seldom out of her mind, and every day her curiosity grew more intense; morning, noon, and night she wondered about that half-crown, and at last her head was so full of it that she mixed it up with everything she did in lessons or play-time. And at last, one day when she and Sophia Jane were reading aloud to Aunt Hannah, a new idea, and she thought a very good one, was suggested to her.

In the lesson there happened to be an account of a miser, who lived in a wretched hovel, went without sufficient clothing, and almost starved himself for the sake of h.o.a.rding money; everyone thought him poor, but after his death it was found that he had lots of gold and silver coins hidden away in the mattress of his bed.

"What makes people misers?" asked Susan, when she came to the end of this history.

"Love of money, my dear," answered Aunt Hannah.

"Is every one who saves up money a miser?" continued Susan.

"No. Because they may be saving it for a wise and good purpose; but if they hide it up as this man did, and only keep it for the pleasure of looking at it, then they certainly would be called misers."

"Are there any now?" asked Susan, fixing her eyes on Sophia Jane.

"Oh, yes, I daresay there are, plenty," answered Aunt Hannah, who was getting tired of the subject. "Now, get your geography books."

But during the rest of the lesson Susan's mind was very far away, and she made all kinds of stupid mistakes, for what she was thinking of had nothing to do with the map of England. It was something much more interesting and important; for quite suddenly, while reading about the misers, an idea relating to Sophia Jane and the half-crown had darted into her head. She had hidden it away somewhere, and did not mean to spend it at all. The manner in which she had c.h.i.n.ked those coins in her pocket and counted them over, and her secret and crafty behaviour since, all pointed to this. The next question was, "_Where_ had she hidden it?" What mysterious hole had she found unknown to anyone? Susan ran over all the possible places in her mind, and was earnestly occupied in this when Aunt Hannah suddenly asked her a question:

"Where is the town of Croydon?"

"In the attic," answered Susan hurriedly, and then flushed up and gave a guilty look at Sophia Jane, who merely stared in amazement.

"My dear Susan," said Aunt Hannah, "you are strangely inattentive this morning. I can't let you play in the attic if you think of your games during lesson-time."

As the days pa.s.sed, Susan, watching her companion narrowly, felt more and more certain that her suspicions were correct. True, she never saw her retire to the attic alone to count over and rejoice in her secret h.o.a.rd, which real misers were always known to do; but there was this to be remarked: _she bought nothing of Billy Stokes_. When Susan saw her look wistfully at the cocoa-nut rock, and twisted sticks of sugar-candy, and remembered all those pennies, she asked:

"Which are you going to buy?"

"None of 'em," said Sophia Jane, turning away. And now Susan doubted no longer. Sophia Jane was a miser!

Sunday came soon after this. It was a day the children never liked much, because, for several reasons, it was dull. Aunt Hannah did not allow them either to play at their usual games or to read their usual books. Grace was put away, the attic was forbidden, and they had to be very quiet; the only books considered "fit for Sunday," were _Line upon Line_, _The Peep of Day_, _The Dairyman's Daughter_ and _The Pilgrim's Progress_. Bits of this last were always interesting, and the more so because it was a large old copy with big print and plenty of pictures throughout. That of Saul raising Samuel had a never-ceasing attraction for Susan, and Sophia Jane was fond of the part about Giant Despair and his grievous crab-tree cudgel. In the morning they all went with Aunt Hannah to chapel, which was only five minutes' walk from the house; the prayers were long, and they could seldom understand the sermon, though they had to listen to it because Aunt Hannah asked them questions about it afterwards.

Mr Bevis, the minister, who was a great friend of hers, often came to Belmont Cottage, and stayed to have tea. On these occasions it was difficult to Susan to think that he really was the same man who wore a long black gown on Sundays, and white bands under his chin, and often hit the red cushion so hard that she had seen dust rise from it. His voice was quite different, all mystery had left him, and he became just a common grey-haired gentleman, eating m.u.f.fins and asking for more sugar in his tea. She was afraid sometimes that he would ask her some questions about his sermons, or perhaps where some text came from out of the Bible, but he never did so, and indeed took very little notice of the children. On this Sunday they were surprised to find, when the time came up for the sermon, that it was not Mr Bevis that was going to preach. A much younger man mounted the steep stairs into the pulpit, and gave out a text about the widow's mite, and Susan began to listen attentively to the sermon which followed, for, strangely enough, it was all about "giving." How exactly suited to Sophia Jane!