Tom had a scrap of dinner and then ran off to see Aunt Church.  He found the old lady sitting at her parlor window looking out as usual for him.  She was dressed in rusty black; she had a front of stiff curls on her forehead, a white widow’s-cap over it, and a small black crape handkerchief crossed on her breast.  Mrs. Church was a little woman; she had very tiny feet and hands, and was very proud of them.  She never thought of buying any new clothes, and her black bombazine dress was more brown than black now; so was her shawl, and so was the handkerchief which she wore round her neck.  Her cap was tied with ribbons which had been washed so often that they were no longer white, but yellow.

She came to the door to greet Tom when he arrived, and called him in.

“Ah, Tom!” she said, “I have got a piece of plumcake waiting for you; and if you are a really good boy, and will shoo the fowls into my backyard and shut the gate on them, you may look into my microscope.”

“Thank you, Aunt Church,” said Tom.  “Shall I go at once and shoo the fowls?”

“You had best give me my money first.  Here is the box; you drop it in:  two pounds in gold—­I hope to goodness your mother has sent the money in gold—­two pounds in gold and the rest in silver.  Now then, here is the box.  Drop it in like a good child, and then you shall shoo the fowls, and have your plumcake, and look in the microscope.”

“But, Aunt Church—­” said Tom.  He planted himself right in front of the old lady.  He was a tall boy, well set up, with a sandy head, and a face covered with freckles.  He had rather shallow blue eyes and a wide mouth, but his whole expression was honest and full of fun.  “I am desperately sorry, and so is mother.”

“Eh!  What?” said the old lady.  She put her hand to her ear.  “I am a bit hard of hearing, my dear; come close to me.”

“Mother’s awfully sorry, but she can’t pay you to-day.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Church; “can’t pay me to-day!  But it’s the first of the month, and she was never behindhand—­I will say that—­in her payments before.”

“She’s fretting past bearing,” said Tom.  “She’d give all the world to be able to pay you up, but she ain’t got the money, and that’s a fact.  We have had a robbery in the shop, Aunt Church, and mother has took on dreadful.”

“A burglary?” said Mrs. Church.  “Now tell me all about it.  Stand here and pour your words into my ear.  I am very much interested about burglaries.  Was there attempted murder?  Speak up, boy—­speak up.”

Tom quite longed to say that there was.  Had he been able to assure Mrs. Church that burglars with masks on their faces had burst into the shop at dead of night and penetrated to his mother’s bedroom, and had held pistols to her throat and Susy’s throat, and a great bare, glittering knife to his; and had he been further able to tell her that he himself, unaided, had grappled with the enemy, had wrested the knife from the hand of one, and knocked the loaded pistols from the hands of the others—­then, indeed, he would have felt himself a hero, and the mere fact of not being able to return the money on the appointed day would not have signified.