But Tom was truthful, and he had but a lame story to tell.  Nineteen-and-sixpence had been abstracted from the till.  Nobody knew how it had been done, and nobody had the least idea who was the thief.  Mrs. Church, who would have given her niece unlimited time to return the money had there been a real, proper, bloodthirsty burglary, was not at all inclined to show mercy when the affair dwindled down into an unknown thief taking a small sum of money out of the till.

“Why didn’t you get it back?” she said.  “Why didn’t you send for the police?  My word, this is a nice state of things!  And me to be out of my money that I counted upon.  Why, Tom, boy, I spend that money on my food, rent, and the little expenses I have to go to.  I made up my mind when I drew that hundred pounds from my dear husband’s hard-earned savings that, whatever happened, I’d make that sum last me for all expenses for three years.  And I have done it, Tom—­I have done it.  I am in low water, Tom.  I want the money; I want it just as much as your poor mother does.”

“But you have money in the bank, haven’t you?”

“That is no affair of yours, Tom Hopkins.  Don’t talk in that silly way to me.  No, I don’t want you to shoo the fowls into the yard, and I don’t mean to give you any plumcake.  I shall have to eat it myself, for I have no money to buy anything else.  And I won’t show you the beautiful wings of the beetle in the microscope.  You can go home to your mother and tell her I am very much annoyed indeed.”

“But, Aunt Church,” said Tom, “if you were to see poor mother you wouldn’t blame her.  She looks, oh, so thin and so tired!  She’s terribly unhappy, and she will be certain sure to pay you next week.  It was silly of her, I will own, not to think of the police sooner; but she’s gone to them to-day, ordered by me to do that same.”

“That was thoughtful enough of you, Tom, and I don’t object to giving you a morsel of the stalest cake.  I always keep three cakes in three tin boxes, and you can have a morsel of the stalest; it is more than two months old, but you won’t mind that.”

“Not me,” said Tom, “I like stale cakes best,” he added, determined to show his aunt that he was ready to be pleased with everything.  He was a very knowing boy, and spoke up so well, and was so evidently sorry himself, and so positive that as soon as ever the police were told they would simply lay their hands on the thief and the thief would disgorge his spoils, that Aunt Church was fain to believe him.

In the end she and he made a compact.

“I tell you what it is,” he said.  “You haven’t been to see mother for a long time, and if you ain’t got any money to buy a dinner for yourself, it is but fair you should have a slice off our Sunday joint.”

“Sunday joint, indeed!” snapped Mrs. Church.

“You couldn’t expect us not to have a bit of meat on Sunday,” said Tom.  “Why, we’d get so weak that mother couldn’t earn the money she sends you every month.”