The old-lightkeeper would not believe anything against the character of the boy he had watched grow up and loved so well. He knew Ralph Endicott was not perfect; but he was "toler'ble sure," as he expressed it, that Ralph was no bank burglar.
He was as anxious now over the absent youth as Lorna was, and Lorna had spent a most unhappy night. She arose on this wild and turbulent morning unable to hide from even the casual glance the traces of tears and sleeplessness.
And Miss Ida's glance was never casual. The moment Lorna slipped into the breakfast room—a wee bit late, perhaps—her aunt looked up from behind the coffee percolator. She was saying:
"I do wish John Nicholet would return. All I get is a scrawl here," she tapped the letter beside her plate, "saying that he may be delayed a day or two longer in Boston. I am worried, Lorna, about Prof—about the Endicotts. If only Ralph had not gone away I certainly would put the question to him frankly. If the family is in financial difficulties—— What is the matter, Lorna?"
Her tone was sharp. For once Miss Ida's calm was fretted by her niece's appearance.
"Are you ill?" she cried.
"Why, no, Aunt Ida."
"What is the matter then?"
"I—I—oh, Auntie! The Clinkerport Bank! They say Ralph robbed it!"
"They say—— Are you crazy, child?"