There was a particular object for which she wanted it. Two of her companions had handsome gold pencils, which they wore suspended by a cord around their necks. Mary had teased her mother to buy her one, but Mrs. Merton had turned a deaf ear to her request. Finally she had given up asking, finding that it would be of no avail.
“If I only had this money, or half of it,” thought Mary, “I could buy a pencil for myself, and tell mother it was given me by one of my friends.”
The temptation, to a vain girl like Mary, was a strong one.
“Shall I take it?” she thought.
The dishonesty of the act did not so much deter her as the fear of detection. But the idea unluckily suggested itself that Tom would be far more likely to be suspected than she.
“Mr. Holland is rich,” she said to herself; “he won’t feel the loss.”
She held the pocket-book irresolutely in her hand, uncertain whether to take a part of the contents or the whole. Finally she opened it, drew out the bills, amounting to twenty dollars, hastily thrust them into her pocket, and, replacing the pocket-book on the bureau, went downstairs.
She met her mother in the lower hall.
“I am afraid you will be late to school, Mary,” she said.
“I couldn’t find my shoes for a long time,” said Mary, flushing a little at the thought of the money in her pocket.