“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.

Grace was conscious that her old nurse was still possessed by a strong feeling of disapproval regarding her donation, so she rather avoided conversation; besides, she had a great deal to think about as she walked along the crowded lamp-lit streets by Margery’s side.

At last they reached the quiet square where Miss Hume lived, and as they crossed the grass-grown pavement and went up the steps to the house, Grace glanced up to the curtained window of her aunt’s sitting-room, and suddenly remembered, with a feeling of discomfort, that Miss Hume must presently be told of the destination of her locket; if not by herself, certainly by Margery, who had just heaved a heavy sigh, and was evidently girding herself up for the painful duty of narrating the strange behaviour of her charge.

“Now, Margery, I’m going to auntie, to tell her about the locket, this very minute, so you need not trouble about it,” said Grace, as she ran quickly upstairs to her aunt’s room and closed the door.