"Of course it would," replied Gus, almost indignantly; "why, there isn't anything he wouldn't do for you. He is always buying things for you. There isn't another girl—"
"Oh, Gus, I know!" she interrupted him, with fresh sadness in look and tone. "But I'd gladly give them up. I'd gladly live on dry bread and go bare-foot if only I could be sure—that things were honestly come by."
She said the last words very low, as if speaking to herself; but Gus heard them.
He started, and looked up at her with consternation painted on his face.
"Oh, Lucy, you don't mean—"
"Hush, hush!" she whispered, turning on him a white, frightened face. "What did I say? I should not have said it. Don't think of it again, Gus. I did not mean anything, indeed."
"Lucy, you might tell me."
"There is nothing to tell; indeed I know nothing, only I am full of fear. Please, Gus, never speak of this again. And now come in with me, and I will give you some supper. Father and Jack will not be home till late. Do come and cheer me. You shall tell me about the lesson at Sunday school, and we can read about it in mother's Bible. I have her Bible, but I seldom read it, because it makes me so sad to think that I shall never read it to her again."
Gus willingly consented. He said little as they went down the field, Lucy moving slowly and with difficulty. He was overpowered by the astounding conviction which had come to him. The doubts suggested by the affair of the bad florin had received unexpected confirmation. He felt sure now that Lucas was a dishonest man.