Mr. Robert Weymouth threw away his cigar and shook free one arm with that peculiar gesture that always preceded his outbursts of irascibility.  Uncle Bushrod bowed his head to the expected storm, but he did not flinch.  If the house of Weymouth was to fall, he would fall with it.  The banker spoke, and Uncle Bushrod blinked with surprise.  The storm was there, but it was suppressed to the quietness of a summer breeze.

“Bushrod,” said Mr. Robert, in a lower voice than he usually employed, “you have overstepped all bounds.  You have presumed upon the leniency with which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably.  So you know what is in this satchel!  Your long and faithful service is some excuse, but—­go home, Bushrod—­not another word!”

But Bushrod grasped the satchel with a firmer hand.  The headlight of the train was now lightening the shadows about the station.  The roar was increasing, and folks were stirring about at the track side.

“Marse Robert, gimme dis ‘er’ valise.  I got a right, suh, to talk to you dis ‘er’ way.  I slaved for you and ’tended to you from a child up.  I went th’ough de war as yo’ body-servant tell we whipped de Yankees and sent ’em back to de No’th.  I was at yo’ weddin’, and I was n’ fur away when yo’ Miss Letty was bawn.  And Miss Letty’s chillun, dey watches to-day for Uncle Bushrod when he come home ever’ evenin’.  I been a Weymouth, all ’cept in colour and entitlements.  Both of us is old, Marse Robert.  ‘Tain’t goin’ to be long till we gwine to see Miss Lucy and has to give an account of our doin’s.  De ole nigger man won’t be ‘spected to say much mo’ dan he done all he could by de fambly dat owned him.  But de Weymouths, dey must say dey been livin’ pure and fearless and widout reproach.  Gimme dis valise, Marse Robert—­I’m gwine to hab it.  I’m gwine to take it back to the bank and lock it up in de vault.  I’m gwine to do Miss Lucy’s biddin’.  Turn ’er loose, Marse Robert.”

The train was standing at the station.  Some men were pushing trucks along the side.  Two or three sleepy passengers got off and wandered away into the night.  The conductor stepped to the gravel, swung his lantern and called:  “Hello, Frank!” at some one invisible.  The bell clanged, the brakes hissed, the conductor drawled:  “All aboard!”

Mr. Robert released his hold on the satchel.  Uncle Bushrod hugged it to his breast with both arms, as a lover clasps his first beloved.

“Take it back with you, Bushrod,” said Mr. Robert, thrusting his hands into his pockets.  “And let the subject drop—­now mind!  You’ve said quite enough.  I’m going to take the train.  Tell Mr. William I will be back on Saturday.  Good night.”

The banker climbed the steps of the moving train and disappeared in a coach.  Uncle Bushrod stood motionless, still embracing the precious satchel.  His eyes were closed and his lips were moving in thanks to the Master above for the salvation of the Weymouth honour.  He knew Mr. Robert would return when he said he would.  The Weymouths never lied.  Nor now, thank the Lord! could it be said that they embezzled the money in banks.