In the morning, when the landlord had served breakfast with his own hands, Harcourt called boldly for the bill; and Barton stared at him, but the landlord was confused.
"My wife," he stammered—"you must excuse her, gentlemen, nothing will do but she must speak with you herself about the reckoning. I'll go call her."
She came with a wonder of gladness in her face, and the little girl clinging to a fold of her mother's dress by the left hand and pressing the other brown fist close to her neck.
"You see," said the mother. "She is well! Run, Faith, and kiss the gentleman's hand. Oh, sir, there can be no talk of payment between us—we are deep in your debt; but if my child might keep this ancient potent charm?"
The question hung in her voice. Harcourt delayed a moment, as if in doubt, before he answered, smiling:
"I am loath to part from it," he said at last, "but since she has proved it, let her keep it and believe in it for good—never for evil. Come, little Faith, kiss me good-bye—no, not on the hand!"
When they were alone together, Barton turned upon his companion with reproachful looks.
"What is this charm?" he asked.
"A secret," answered the other curtly.
"I like it not," said Barton, shaking his head; "you go too far, Jack. You put a deception on these simple folk."