"One of my working-men friends, perhaps,—a little shy of being seen to do a generous act. Another half-crown most likely. Or let us hope for five shillings. Perhaps the name will be inside. Wait, and I will tell you. I really do believe you are as much interested in this lifeboat affair as I am myself. Eh, Mrs. Maggs?"
The Vicar beamed up at her with his bright boy-like smile, and Mrs. Maggs said, "Yes, sir," decorously, with an affectionate glow at her heart. There was not the least need to specify how much she cared for its own sake, and how much for his sake. Perhaps she did not know herself.
A folded blank sheet was within, and inside that sheet were three or four thin papers, at sight of which the Vicar stared in amazement. Across one corner of the blank sheet was written, in a very minute neat hand, "For the lifeboat fund." Nothing more; and no name. The Vicar flushed, and his heart beat fast.
"Bank-notes, sir!!!" said Mrs. Maggs.
"Yes, bank-notes, Maggs! For how much do you think? Maggs, how much do you think?" The Vicar was so excited as to go back to his earlier style of designating Mrs. Maggs, forgetting that he had taken of late to always calling her "Mrs. Maggs," by way of inducing proper respect for her in the village. "How much do you think?" he repeated.
"I couldn't guess, sir." Mrs. Maggs smoothed down her apron.
"Ninety pounds, Maggs! There are bank-notes here for no less than ninety pounds!"
"Sir!"
"It's true! Ninety pounds!" The Vicar sprang to his feet, and waved the notes over his head, with a hearty "Hurrah!" which rang through the house. Then he stopped, bent his head, and said reverently,—
"Thank God. Now we can do it."