When the crowd moved away from the passage, and began to scatter, Margery and her charge left the old pew in the highest gallery and prepared to go down the great staircase which led to the entrance door. Near the door there stood two elders of the church, with metal plates in their hands, waiting for the offerings of the congregation. Grace had been holding hers tightly in her hand, having untied it from her neck and slipped the ribbon in her pocket, and now she laid it gently among the silver, and the pennies, and the Scotch bank-notes, hoping that it might slip unobserved between one of the crumpled notes, and so escape the detective glance of Margery's quick eyes. But her hope was vain. Nurse caught sight of the pearls gleaming pure and white among the other offerings: "Missy, what have you done? Your locket! your mamma's beautiful pearl locket! Did I ever see the like? It's a mistake, sir. Miss Campbell could not have meant it," she said, turning to the elder, with her hand raised to recapture it.
"Stop, Margery, it is not a mistake; I meant to put it there," replied Grace in an eager whisper, as she pulled her nurse's shawl, glancing timidly at the elder, as if she feared he was going to conspire with Margery, and that, after all, her offering would be rejected.
"Missy! are you mad? What will your aunt say? Really, sir, will you be so kind?"—and Margery did not finish her sentence, but looked piteously at the elder, who was glancing at the little girl with a kindly, though questioning expression in his eyes, saying presently:
"You may have your locket back, if you wish it, my child. Perhaps you have given it hastily, and may regret it afterwards, and we would not like to have your jewel in these circumstances."
"Oh, thank you, sir," Margery was beginning to say, in a grateful tone, when Grace interrupted her.
"No, please don't, sir, I will not take it back. It was my very own, and I have given it to God, to use for these poor, sad boys and girls," Grace added, in a tremulous tone.
Then the old elder looked at Margery, and said, "My friend, I cannot help you further. Neither you nor I have anything to do with this gift; it is between the giver and the Receiver."
There was something solemn in his tone which kept the still indignant Margery from saying more, and she prepared to move away with her charge. But, as she turned to go, she caught a glimpse of her acquaintance the tinsmith, who was in the act of dropping into the plate a crumpled Scotch bank-note, which he held in his broad palm.
"Bless me, they're all going daft together," muttered Margery, with uplifted hands, as she hurried away. "It was a very good discourse, no doubt, but to think of folk strippin' themselves like that—a pun'-note, forsooth, near the half of the week's work; the man's gone clean demented."
But the tinsmith's serene, smiling face showed no sign of any aberration of intellect, and Margery took Grace's hand, and hurried her through the crowd, resolved that she should not, for another instant, stand by and countenance such reckless expenditure.