"Well, what are you prying about here for?" Mr. Skinner said. "Oh, eggs! My dear, poach me a couple for supper; I'm fond of poached eggs."
But Bet stood on one foot speechless by the counter, where she had put the basket.
"What do you say Jack stole?"
"My little cash-box, the night he ran away; but I don't want to be hard on the boy—my only sister's child. I'll forgive him if he'll confess."
Bet stood pondering for another moment, and then she said—
"I've got another errand to do. I'll come back for the basket."
And Bet was off, as if on the wings of the wind—off to the Denes and the little lonely red-brick house, which was shut up and had a board on a pole in the front garden, with "To Let. Inquire for the key at Mr. Skinner's, Market Row," painted in white letters on it.
Bet looked right and left; there was no one in sight, and she went round to the back, and found, to her great joy, an old trowel with half the handle broken, which she seized eagerly. She went down on her hands and knees, and dug and burrowed with her fingers in the soft, sandy soil. Her heart beat wildly with hope and fear; her hat fell back, and her tawny hair fell over her shoulders. The light of the April evening was waning; she had not a moment to lose.
"It was here—it was here—it must have been just here," she cried. Some people passing on the raised path where Uncle Bobo had sat on the evening of little Miss Joy's accident turned to look at her once, and wondered what she was doing, digging there on hands and knees.
At last Bet stopped, and, raising her head and clasping her hands, said—