“That’s a jolly way to use your money,” whispered he to Prudy; “much good may it do her?” And then aloud, in a patronizing tone, “I’ll take a few of your apples, Granny.  How do you sell ’em?”

“These here, a penny apiece; them there, two pennies; and them, three.”

Horace felt in his coat pocket for his purse; and drew out his hand quickly, as if a bee had stung it.

“Why, what!  What does this mean?”

“What is it, Horace?”

“Nothing, auntie, only my wallet’s gone,” replied the boy, very white about the mouth.

“Gone?  Look again.  Are you sure?”

“Yes, as sure as I want to be?”

“Mine,—­is mine gone too?” cried Prudy.

Horace did not seem willing to answer.

“Where did you have your purse last?”

“Just before we came out of Dorlon’s oyster saloon.  Just before we came here for butter-scotch,” replied Horace, glaring fiercely at Granny.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Is mine gone, too?” cried Prudy again.  “Did you put mine in the same pocket?”

“Yes, Prue; I put yours in the same pocket; and it’s gone, too.”

“O, Horace!”

“A pretty clean sweep, Prue.”

“The vilyins!” cried Granny; looking, auntie thought, as if her whole soul was stirred with pity for the children; but, as Horace thought, as if she were trying to put a bold face on a very black crime.

“Let us go back to Dorlon’s, and ask the waiters if you dropped it in there,” suggested Aunt Madge.

“Yes, but I know I didn’t," said Horace, with another scowl at Granny.

“My money is safe,” said self-righteous Dotty, as they walked away; “don’t you wish you had given yours to me, Prudy?”

“The deceitful old witch!” muttered Horace; meaning Granny, of course.

And lo, there she stood close behind them!  She was beckoning Mrs. Allen back to her fruit-stand.

“Wait here one minute, children; I’ll be right back.”

“Nothin’, mum,” said Granny, looking very much grieved; “nothin’ only I wants to say, mum, if that youngster thinks as I took his money, I wisht you’d sarch me.”

“Fie, Granny!  Never mind what a boy like that says, when he is excited.  I know you too well to think you’d steal.”

“The Lord bless you, mum,” cried the old woman, all smiles again.

“And, Granny, I mean to come here next week, and I’ll bring you some flannel and liniment for your rheumatism.  Where shall I leave them if you’re sick, and can’t be here?”

“O, thank ye, mum; thank ye kindly.  The ain’t many o’ the likes of you, mum.  And if ye does bring the things for my rheumaty, and I ain’t here, just ye leave ’em with the gyurl at this stand, if yer will.”

“Did she give it back?” cried Horace, the moment his aunt appeared.

“No, my boy; how could she when she hadn’t it to give?”