Trying to laugh, she added, "I knew how Lightfoot and he would be loth enough to part—he won't bring him out till the last minute; so do sit ye down, neighbour."
The farmer had scarcely sat down, when Jem, with a pale wild countenance, came back.
"What's the matter?" said his mistress. "God bless the boy," said his mother, looking at him quite frightened, whilst he tried to speak, but could not. She went up to him, and then, leaning his head against her, he cried, "It's gone! It's all gone!" And bursting into tears, he sobbed as if his heart would break.
"What's gone, love?" said his mother.
"My two guineas—Lightfoot's two guineas. I went to fetch 'em to give you, mammy; but the broken flower-pot that I put them in and all's gone—quite gone!" repeated he, checking his sobs. "I saw them safe last night, and was showing 'em to Lightfoot; and I was so glad to think I had earned 'em all myself; and thought how surprised you'd look, and how glad you'd be, and how you'd kiss me, and all!"
His mother listened to him with the greatest surprise, whilst his mistress stood in silence, looking first at the old woman, and then at Jem with a penetrating eye, as if she suspected the truth of his story, and was afraid of becoming the dupe of her own compassion. "This is a very strange thing!" said she gravely. "How came you to leave all your money in a broken flower-pot in the stable? How came you not to give it to your mother to take care of?"
"Why, don't you remember," said Jem, looking up in the midst of his tears, "why, don't you remember you your own self bade me not to tell her about it till you were by?"
"And did you not tell her?"
"Nay, ask mammy," said Jem, a little offended; and when afterwards the lady went on questioning him in a severe manner, as if she did not believe him, he at last made no answer.
"O, Jem! Jem! Why don't you speak to the lady?" said his mother.