David now slid off the box and placed himself gravely at his brother’s side. Miss Barnicroft looked from the boys to the crock with a satirical light in her eyes.
“And may I ask where you found it?” she said with icy distinctness which seemed to cut the air like a knife.
“In Rumborough Camp,” murmured Ambrose.
“I knew the thief was in your father’s parish,” said Miss Barnicroft, “and I’m not surprised to find that it’s a boy; but I certainly didn’t suspect the vicar’s own son.”
“We didn’t know the money was yours,” broke in David, “and father says we are not thieves.”
“At any rate,” returned Miss Barnicroft, fixing him sharply with her cold light eyes, “you knew it wasn’t yours. I was always taught that to take what was not mine was stealing.”
“We thought it was Roman,” said David, still undaunted, “and they’re all dead.” Then, seeing no reason for staying longer, he added quickly, “Good-bye! father’s waiting for us.”
“Oh, really!” said Miss Barnicroft, rising with a short laugh. “Well, you can give him my compliments, and say that I haven’t altered my opinion of boys, and that I advise him to teach you your catechism, particularly your duty towards your neighbour.”
As the boys made hurriedly for the doorway, she suddenly called to them in quite a different voice,—“Stay a minute. Won’t you have some ambrosia before you go?”
Ambrose had no idea what ambrosia could be, but he at once concluded that it was something poisonous.