head against her, then again roughly put it aside. She was accustomed to
chatter with them, scold them, and slap them; but to-night they were
uneasily dumb. They looked at her with round eyes; and at last their
looks annoyed her. She told them to go to bed, and they slunk away,
gaping at the open box on the stairs, and huddling together overhead,
all on one bed, in the bitter cold, to whisper to each other. Isaac was
a stern parent; Bessie a capricious one; and the children, though they
could be riotous enough by themselves, were nervous and easily cowed at
home.

Bessie, left alone, sat silently over the fire, her thin lips tight-set.
She would deny everything--_everything_. Let them find out what they
could. Who could prove what was in John's box when he left it? Who could
prove she hadn't got those half-crowns in change somewhere?

The reflexion of the day had only filled her with a passionate and
fierce regret. _Why_ had she not followed her first impulse, and thrown
it all on Timothy?--told the story to Isaac, while she was still
bleeding from his son's violence? It had been her only chance, and out
of pure stupidness she had lost it. To have grasped it might at least
have made him take _her_ part, if it had forced him to give up Timothy.
And who would have listened to Timothy's tales?

She sickened at the thought of her own folly, beating her knee with her
clenched fist. For to tell the tale now would only be to make her doubly
vile in Isaac's eyes. He would not believe her--no one would believe
her. What motive could she plead for her twenty-four hours of silence,
she knowing that John was coming back immediately? Isaac would only hate
her for throwing it on Timothy.