“Whist!” she cried. “Whist ye, for God’s sake! O my man, whist ye! If Heaven were to hear; if poor Aunt Susan were to hear! Think, she may be listening.” And with the histrionism of strong emotion she pointed to a corner of the kitchen.
His eyes followed her finger. He looked there for a little, thinking, blinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and resumed his place upon the settle, the bad piece still in his hand. So he sat for some time, looking upon the half-crown, and now wondering to himself on the injustice and partiality of the law, now computing again and again the nature of his loss. So he was still sitting when Mr. Archer entered the kitchen. At this a light came into his face, and after some seconds of rumination he despatched Nance upon an errand.
“Mr. Archer,” said he, as soon as they were alone together, “would you give me a guinea-piece for silver?”
“Why, sir, I believe I can,” said Mr. Archer.
And the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the apartment. The blood shot into her face.
“What’s to do here?” she asked rudely.
“Nothing, my dearie,” said old Jonathan, with a touch of whine.
“What’s to do?” she said again.
“Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,“ returned Mr. Archer.
“Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,” replied the girl. “I had a bad piece, and I fear it is mixed up among the good.”