"I—I got it—and I never touched your old box!" came in a jerk from Harry. "You—you're mean to suspect me, mean!" And he ran back to the wood-pile and then to the barn. Here he came to a halt, his breath coming hard and fast. His cheeks were burning and his mind was in a whirl.
"To think I took his money!" he muttered. "That I took it! Oh, what a shame! I'll never, never——" He could not finish. "What will mother say?" And then the tears came into his eyes.
Mr. Westmore was a stern man, but he loved his sons and in the past he had trusted them implicitly. He started to enter the house, then reconsidered the matter and followed Harry to the barn. Here it was so dark he could scarcely see.
"Harry!"
No answer came back, and he repeated the call several times.
"Go away and leave me," came from the corner where the feed box was located. "I—I don't want you to—to speak to me!"
"Harry, let us talk this over." Mr. Westmore's voice was unusually kind. He walked over to the feed box. "You are doing wrong to fly into such a passion over this, my son."
"You think I—I took that box?"
"No, I don't think so. You said you didn't touch it, and I have always believed you."
"But you think I got the two dollars from the box."