"Strange!" seemed a mild expression to Miss Toosey, to whom it appeared miraculous. "I don't know how to account for it, Mr. John. I suppose it's wrong to think it a miracle, but I could not help thinking of what happened this morning."
"What was that?"
"Why, don't you remember that dear child putting her penny into the box?"
"Oh, yes; and making such a hullaballoo afterwards."
Miss Toosey did not wish to recall that part of the affair. "It was so sweetly done."
"Yes; but you gave it back directly."
Miss Toosey felt quite cross at such inconvenient remarks interrupting her miracle; but she continued, relapsing into a confidential whisper,—
"You see, Mr. John, it was a lad that brought the five barley-loaves, and I thought perhaps the baby's penny might have been turned into a five-pound note."
John made no comment, and she went on as much to herself as to him,—
"I suppose it's popish to think of such a thing; and besides one would have thought if it had been a miracle it would have been quite a new Bank of England note; but it was one of Tuckey's, crumpled and dirty, that had been cut in half, and joined down the middle with the edge of stamps, and it had Mr. Purts's name written on the back. But still," said Miss Toosey wistfully, as they came to the station-road, and John shook hands in parting, "it's God that gives the increase anyhow, miracle or not, and He knows all about it."