But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. The weather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office was done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother's return. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit.

He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little d.i.c.k Lacy his accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual.

But, through all his work and all his amus.e.m.e.nts, he carried with him a sense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not right between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. He seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtook him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pa.s.s the house. Once he came at night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been forgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his head on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence.

Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had been at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and where he went, and how he pa.s.sed his time; and though David was surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he thought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into his mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pa.s.s a few days at the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. He was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters in the morning, for Mr Oswald's manner was much kinder, and he spoke to him just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did not come down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might.

That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive till after the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he went home. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money; and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whether the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of suspicion in his friend's hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if some one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell's voice, saying:

"Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falsely accused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What would your mother say?"

His mother! David uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain.

Was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief?

"David," said his friend solemnly, "it is at a time like this that our trust in G.o.d stands us in stead. There is nothing to be dismayed at, if you are innocent."

"If!" said David, with a gasp.

"Ay! 'if!' Your mother herself might say as much as that. And you have not said that the charge is a false one yet."

"I did not think I should need to say so to you!"

"But you see, my lad, I am not speaking for myself. I was bidden ask you the question point blank, and I must give your answer to him that sent me. My word is another matter. You must answer to him."

"To Mr Oswald, I suppose? Why should he suspect me? Has he been suspecting me all these weeks? Was that the reason he wished nothing said about it in the office?"

"That was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna' let your eyes flash on me," said Mr Caldwell, severely. "Don't you think it has caused him much unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?"

"But why should he suspect _me_?"

"There seemed to be no one else. But he must speak for himself. I have nothing to say for him. I have only to carry him your answer."

"I will answer him myself," said David, rising, as though he were going at once to do it. But he only walked to the window and stood looking out.

"David," said Mr Caldwell, "put away your books, and come home with me."

"No, I cannot do that," said David, shortly.

He did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spoken for a while. By and by Mr Caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way:

"David, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is to see that you bear it well. The accusation will give but small concern to your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has been indulging in an angry and unchristian spirit." And then he went away.

He did not go very far, however. It was getting late, and, in the gathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the house seemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before he reached the gate.

"David," said he kindly, opening the door, "come away home with me."

But David only answered as he had done before.

"No, I cannot do that."

He said it in a gentler tone, however, and added:

"No, I thank you, Mr Caldwell, I would rather not."

"It will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart.

You need not be alone, however. You don't need me to tell you where you are to take all this trouble to. You may honour _Him_ by bearing it well," said his friend.

"Bear it well!" No, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first.

When Mr Caldwell had gone, and David had shut the doors and windows to keep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he had kept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in a flood. And they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh.

There was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitter as they fell. He had wild thoughts of going that very night to Mr Oswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he would never enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected, seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made him eager to defend himself at whatever cost. But night brought wiser counsels; and David knew, as Mr Caldwell had said, where to betake himself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite another mind.

As for Mr Caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer to Mr Oswald. He did not even go home first to his own house, though he had not been there for a fortnight.

"For who knows," said he to himself, "what that foolish lad may go and say in his anger, and Mr Oswald must hear what I have to say first, or it may end badly for all concerned."

He found Mr Oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a few words concerning the business which had called him away during the last few weeks, he told him of his visit to David, and spoke with decision as to the impossibility of the lad's having any knowledge of the lost money.

"It seems impossible, certainly," said Mr Oswald; "and yet how can its disappearance be accounted for? It must have been taken from the table or from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or I must have seen it at night. There can be no doubt it was brought to me on that day, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except young Inglis and yourself were gone. I was out, I remember, when it was time to go home. When I came in, there was no one in the outer office. You had sent David out, you said. He came in before I left--" And he went over the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the money that vexed him. Though the loss had been ten times as great, it would have been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss of confidence in those whom he employed.

"For some one must have taken the money, even if David Inglis be not guilty."

Here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room.

"David Inglis, papa! What can you mean?" and Frank came hurriedly forward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from the light.

"My boy! are you here? What would the doctor say? You should have been in bed long ago."

"But, papa, what is it that is lost? You never could blame Davie, papa.

You could not think Davie could take money, Mr Caldwell?"

"No, I know David Inglis better," said Mr Caldwell, quietly.

"And, papa, you don't think ill of Davie? You would not if you knew him. Papa! you have not accused him? Oh! what will Aunt Mary think?"

cried the boy in great distress. "Papa, how could you do it?"

Mr Oswald was asking himself the same question. The only thing he could say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thing to say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in David.

But he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told Frank it was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in his discomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away.

"But I shall go to Davie the first thing in the morning, papa. I would not believe such a thing of Davie, though a hundred men declared it. I would sooner believe it of--of Mr Caldwell," said Frank, excitedly.

"Be quiet, Frank," said his father; but Mr Caldwell laughed a little and patted the boy on the shoulder as he pa.s.sed, and then he, too, said good-night and went away. And Mr Oswald was not left in a very pleasant frame of mind, that is certain.

True to his determination to see David, Frank reached the bank next morning before his father. He reached it before David, too, and he would have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshine which had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made him dizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa in his father's office for a while. He lay still after his father came in, and only moved when he heard David's voice saying--

"Mr Caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir."

Then Frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend.