"I'll not _tell_, but--"

Bates took no heed. "My aunt," he began, "had money laid by; she had ten
English sovereigns she liked to keep by her--women often do. There was
no one but me and Sissy knew where it was; and she took them with her.
By that I know she was making for the railway, and--" His voice grew
unsteady as he brought his hand down; there was a look of far-off vision
in his eyes, as though he saw the thing of which he spoke. "Ay, she's
lying now somewhere on the hills, where she would be beaten down by the
snow before she reached a road."

Trenholme was thinking of the sadness of it all, forgetting to wonder
even why he had been told not to repeat this last, when he found Bates
was regarding his silence with angry suspicion.

"It wasn't stealing," he said irritably; "she knew she might have them
if she wanted." It was as though he were giving a shuffling excuse for
some fault of his own and felt its weakness.

The young man, taken by surprise, said mechanically, "Would Miss Bates
have given them to her?" He had fallen into the habit of referring to
the childish old woman with, all due form, for he saw Bates liked it.

"Hoots! What are you saying, man? Would ye have had the lassie leave the
burden on my mind that she'd gone out of her father's house penniless?
'Twas the one kindness she did me to take the gold."