“Where didst find this tea, lass?” he asked.

“In the little corner cupboard in the scullery,” she said.  “I’d no idea that people drank such good China tea in Bursley.”

“Ah!” he observed, concealing his concern under a mask of irony, “China tea was drunk i’ Bursley afore your time.”

“Mother would only drink Ceylon,” said she.

“That doesna’ surprise me,” said he, as if to imply that no vagary on the part of Susan could surprise him.  And he proceeded, reflectively:  “In th’ corner cupboard, sayst tha?”

“Yes, in a large tin box.”

A large tin box.  This news was overwhelming.  He rose abruptly and went into the scullery.  Indubitably there was a large tin box, pretty nearly half full of his guarded tea, in the corner cupboard.

He returned, the illusion of half a lifetime shattered.  “That there woman was a thief!” he announced.

“What woman?”

“Mrs. Butt.”

And he explained to Helen all his elaborate precautions for the preservation of his China tea.  Helen was wholly sympathetic.  The utter correctness of her attitude towards Mrs. Butt was balm to him.  Only one theory was conceivable.  The wretched woman must have had a key to his caddy.  During his absence from the house she must have calmly helped herself to tea at five shillings a pound—­a spoonful or so at a time.  Doubtless she made tea for her private consumption exactly when she chose.  It was even possible that she walked off from time to time with quantities of tea to her own home.  And he who thought himself so clever, so much cleverer than a servant!

“You can’t have her back, as she isn’t honest, even if she comes back,” said Helen.

“Oh, her won’t come back,” said James.  “Fact is, I’ve had difficulties with her for a long time now.”

“Then what shall you do, my poor dear uncle?”

“Nay,” said he, “I mun ask you that.  It was you as was th’ cause of her going.”

“Oh, uncle!” she exclaimed, laughing.  “How can you say such a thing?” And she added, seriously:  “You can’t be expected to cook for yourself, can you?  And as for getting a new one—­”

He noticed with satisfaction that she had taken to calling him simply uncle, instead of great-stepuncle.

“A new ’un!” he muttered, grimly, and sighed in despair.

“I shall stay and look after your supper,” she said, brightly.

“Yes, and what about to-morrow?” He grew gloomier.

“To-morrow’s Sunday.  I’ll come to-morrow, for breakfast.”

“Yes, and what about Monday?” His gloom was not easily to be dispersed.

“I’ll come on Monday,” she replied, with increasing cheerfulness.

“But your school, where ye teach everything, lass?”

“Of course, I shall give up school,” said she, “at once.  They must do without me.  It will mean promotion for some one.  I can’t bother about giving proper notice.  Supposing you had been dangerously ill, I should have come, and they would have managed without me.  Therefore, they can manage without me.  Therefore, they must.”