couldn’t see little Philip behind the three-foot hedge, so she turned away.  But somewhere in that big garden, or under the trees beside it, my father buried the box that held the money—­ten thousand dollars.  It shows how he trusted that baby, that he took him with him, and you’ll see how his trust was only too well justified.  For that evening, Christmas night, very suddenly my father died—­before he had time to tell my mother where he had hidden the box.  He tried; when consciousness came a few minutes before the end he gasped out, ’I buried the money’—­and then he choked.  Once again he whispered just two words:  ‘Philip knows.’  And my mother said, ‘Yes, dearest—­Philip and I will find it—­don’t worry, dearest,’ and that quieted him.  She told me about it so many times.

“After the funeral she took little Philip and explained to him as well as she could that he must tell mother where he and father had put the box, and—­this is the point of it all, Philip—­he wouldn’t tell.  She went over and over it all, again and again, but it was no use.  He had given his word to my father never to tell, and he was too much of a baby to understand how death had dissolved that promise.  My mother tried every way, of course, explanations and reasoning first, then pleading, and finally severity; she even punished the poor little martyr, for it was awfully important to us all.  But the four-year-old baby was absolutely incorruptible, he cried bitterly and sobbed out: 

“’Farver said I mustn’t never tell anybody—­never!  Farver said Philip Fairfield of Fairfield mustn’t never bweak his words,’ and that was all.

“Nothing could induce him to give the least hint.  Of course there was great search for it, but it was well hidden and it was never found.  Finally, mother took her obdurate son and me and came to New York with us, and we lived on the little income which she had of her own.  Her hope was that as soon as Philip was old enough she could make him understand, and go back with him and get that large sum lying underground—­lying there yet, perhaps.  But in less than a year the little boy was dead and the secret was gone with him.”

Philip Beckwith’s eyes were intense and wide.  The Fairfield eyes, brown and brilliant, their young fire was concentrated on his mother’s face.

“Do you mean that money is buried down there, yet, mother?” he asked solemnly.

Mrs. Beckwith caught at the big fellow’s sleeve with slim fingers.  “Don’t go to-day, Phil—­wait till after lunch, anyway!”

“Please don’t make fun, mother—­I want to know about it.  Think of it lying there in the ground!”

“Greedy boy!  We don’t need money now, Phil.  And the old place will be yours when I am dead—­” The lad’s arm went about his mother’s shoulders.  “Oh, but I’m not going to die for ages!  Not till I’m a toothless old person with side curls, hobbling along on a stick.  Like this!”—­she sprang to her feet and the boy laughed a great peal at the hag-like effect as his young mother threw herself into the part.  She dropped on the divan again at his side.