away into the night. The conductor stepped to the gravel, swung his
lantern and called: "Hello, Frank!" at some one invisible. The bell
clanged, the brakes hissed, the conductor drawled: "All aboard!"

Mr. Robert released his hold on the satchel. Uncle Bushrod hugged it
to his breast with both arms, as a lover clasps his first beloved.

"Take it back with you, Bushrod," said Mr. Robert, thrusting his
hands into his pockets. "And let the subject drop--now mind! You've
said quite enough. I'm going to take the train. Tell Mr. William I
will be back on Saturday. Good night."

The banker climbed the steps of the moving train and disappeared
in a coach. Uncle Bushrod stood motionless, still embracing the
precious satchel. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving in
thanks to the Master above for the salvation of the Weymouth honour.
He knew Mr. Robert would return when he said he would. The Weymouths
never lied. Nor now, thank the Lord! could it be said that they
embezzled the money in banks.

Then awake to the necessity for further guardianship of Weymouth
trust funds, the old man started for the bank with the redeemed
satchel.



Three hours from Weymouthville, in the gray dawn, Mr. Robert
alighted from the train at a lonely flag-station. Dimly he could
see the figure of a man waiting on the platform, and the shape
of a spring-waggon, team and driver. Half a dozen lengthy bamboo