The meal was enlivened by cheerful chat, though the same anxious thought pressed more or less heavily upon the heart of each of the elders of the party. No one gave it utterance till the little ones were quiet in their nest; then, with every door locked and bolted, every shutter closed and barred, and the curtains drawn, the four (Sandy being always taken into their counsels) drew together and examined the contents of the satchel.
“A thousand-dollar bill!” Ronald said, turning it about in his hands, “and marked with some one’s initials. Well, if the burglars should rob us of it they would hardly dare venture to use it.”
“True, sir,” said Sandy; “an’ what’s to hinder us frae spoilin’ these ither anes for their use in the same way? Here’s four one-hundred-dollar notes, one fifty, and the rest in fives, tens, and siller.”
“A good idea,” assented Ronald. “Mirry, please bring pen and ink.”
The marking was done, and they were discussing the probabilities of a visit from the burglars infesting the country, and the best disposition to be made of the money for the night, when a loud knocking at the kitchen door startled them and set the hearts of the two ladies to beating almost audibly. Sandy rose to answer it, while Miriam hastily concealed the notes in the bosom of her dress.
“Mirry,” whispered Ronald, “give them up rather than suffer yourself to be roughly handled. Sandy, don’t open the door till you know who is there.”
“Surely not, sir,” returned the man, as he left the room, carefully closing the door behind him.
The others sat silent, straining their ears to hear.
Sandy held a moment’s parley with some one; then the bolt was withdrawn, and the tones of a female voice, speaking with a rich Irish brogue, penetrated to the inner room.
“Nora!” exclaimed Miriam, in a tone of relief.