"It is here," she said, suddenly, jerking into his hand a small
roll. "I took it! I did it! Me, me!--not hur! I shall be
hanged, I shall be burnt in hell, if anybody knows I took it!
Out of his pocket, as he leaned against t' bricks. Hur knows?"

She thrust it into his hand, and then, her errand done, began to
gather chips together to make a fire, choking down hysteric
sobs.

"Has it come to this?"

That was all he said. The Welsh Wolfe blood was honest. The
roll was a small green pocket-book containing one or two gold
pieces, and a check for an incredible amount, as it seemed to
the poor puddler. He laid it down, hiding his face again in his
hands.

"Hugh, don't be angry wud me! It's only poor Deb,--hur knows?"

He took the long skinny fingers kindly in his.

"Angry? God help me, no! Let me sleep. I am tired."

He threw himself heavily down on the wooden bench, stunned with
pain and weariness. She brought some old rags to cover him.

It was late on Sunday evening before he awoke. I tell God's
truth, when I say he had then no thought of keeping this money.
Deborah had hid it in his pocket. He found it there. She
watched him eagerly, as he took it out.