After breakfast, Will walked into St. Neots, to have a private conversation with Dr. Edge, and whilst he was away Jane told her mother the story of the lost money. At the end of an hour's talk, she went out into the garden, where presently she was found by her brother, who had walked back at his utmost pace, and wore a perturbed countenance.
"You haven't told yet?" were his first words, uttered in a breathless undertone.
"Why?" asked Jane startled.
"I'm afraid of the result. Edge says that every sort of agitation must be avoided."
"I have told her," said Jane, with quiet voice, but anxious look. "She was grieved on your account, but it gave her no shock. Again and again she said how glad she was you had let us know the truth."
"So far then, good."
"But Dr. Edge—what did he tell you?"
"He said he had wanted to see me, and thought of writing. Yes, he speaks seriously."
They talked for a little, then Will went into the house alone, and found his mother as she sat in her wonted place, the usual needlework on her lap. As he crossed the room, she kept her eyes upon him in a gaze of the gentlest reproach, mingled with a smile, which told the origin of Will's wholesome humour.
"And you couldn't trust me to take my share of the trouble?"