"But you wouldn't condemn a bill because it is new?"
"Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases where
counterfeit bills have been passed, and I suspect this is one of them.
However, I can soon ascertain."

"I wish you would," said the baker's wife. "My husband took it at his
shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is put on his guard."

The shopman sent it to the bank where it was pronounced counterfeit.

Mr. Harding was much surprised at his wife's story.

"Really!" he said. "I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible that
such a young and beautiful child could be guilty of such an offense?"

"Perhaps not," answered his wife. "She may be as innocent in the matter
as Ellen or myself."

"I hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that so young a child
should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before long."

"How?"

"She will undoubtedly come again sometime."

The baker watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days in
vain. It was not Peg's policy to send the child too often to the same
place, as that would increase the chances of detection.

One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.

"Good-morning," said the baker; "what will you have to-day?"

"You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir."

The baker placed it in her hand.

"How much will it be?"

"Twelve cents."

Ida offered him another new bill.

As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter and placed
himself between Ida and the door.

"What is your name, my child?" he asked.

"Ida, sir."

"Ida? But what is your other name?"

Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the name of
Harding, and had told her, if ever the inquiry were made, she must
answer Hardwick.

She answered reluctantly: "Ida Hardwick."

The baker observed her hesitation, and this increased his suspicion.

"Hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the child as
much information as possible before allowing her to perceive that he
suspected her. "And where do you live?"

Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be
questioned so closely.

She said, with some impatience: "I am in a hurry, sir, and would like to
have the change as soon as you can."

"I have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner suddenly changing,
"but you cannot go just yet."

"Why not?" asked Ida.

"Because you have been trying to deceive me."

"I trying to deceive you!" exclaimed Ida.

"Really," thought Mr. Harding, "she does it well; but no doubt she is
trained to it. It is perfectly shocking, such artful depravity in a
child."

"Don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he asked, in as
stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.

"Yes," answered Ida, promptly; "I bought two rolls, at three cents
apiece."

"And what did you offer me in payment?"

"I handed you a dollar bill."

"Like this?" asked the baker, holding up the one she had just offered
him.

"Yes, sir."

"And do you mean to say," demanded the baker, sternly, "that you didn't
know it was bad when you offered it to me?"

"Bad!" gasped Ida.

"Yes, spurious. Not as good as blank paper."

"Indeed, sir, I didn't know anything about it," said Ida, earnestly;
"I hope you'll believe me when I say that I thought it was good."

"I don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed. "Who gave you
the money?"

"The woman I board with."

"Of course I can't give you the gingerbread. Some men, in my place,
would deliver you up to the police. But I will let you go, if you will
make me one promise."

"Oh, I will promise anything, sir," said Ida.

"You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good one
to-morrow?"

Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.




CHAPTER XX

DOUBTS AND FEARS


"Well, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida rejoined
her at the corner of the street. "I thought you were going to stay all
the forenoon. And Where's your gingerbread?"

"He wouldn't let me have it," answered Ida.

"And why wouldn't he let you have it?" said Peg.

"Because he said the money wasn't good."

"Stuff and nonsense! It's good enough. However, it's no matter. We'll go
somewhere else."

"But he said the money I gave him last week wasn't good, and I promised
to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me go."

"Well, where are you going to get your dollar?"

"Why, won't you give it to me?" said the child.

"Catch me at such nonsense!" said Mrs. Hardwick, contemptuously. "I
ain't quite a fool. But here we are at another shop. Go in and see if
you can do any better there. Here's the money."

"Why, it's the same bill I gave you."

"What if it is?"

"I don't want to pass bad money."

"Tut! What hurt will it do?"

"It's the same as stealing."

"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."

"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida.

"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly. "Maybe
you know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do for you to be
so mighty particular, and so you'll find out, if you stay with me long."

"Where did you get the dollar?" asked Ida; "and how is it you have so
many of them?"

"None of your business. You mustn't pry into the affairs of other
people. Are you going to do as I told you?" she continued, menacingly.

"I can't," answered Ida, pale but resolute.

"You can't!" repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do whatever
I told you?"

"Except what was wicked," interposed Ida.

"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with
me."

Peg seized the child's hand, and walked on in sullen silence,
occasionally turning to scowl upon Ida, who had been strong enough, in
her determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the
woman whom she had so much reason to dread.

Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder. Dick was
lounging in a chair.

"Hillo!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's frowning face. "What's
the gal been doin', hey?"

"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg. "I should like to know what she
hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy gingerbread of the
baker."

"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't this
rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of
ingratitude, when Peg and I go to the trouble of earning the money to
pay for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't even willin' to go in
and buy it?"

"I would just as lieve go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me good
money to pay for it."

"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist. "It's
your dooty to do just as she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take
the risk."

"I can't," said the child.

"You hear her!" said Peg.

"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head in grave reproval.
"Little gal, I'm ashamed of you. Put her in the closet, Peg."

"Come along," said Peg, harshly. "I'll show you how I deal with those
that don't obey me."

So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet in the midst
of her desolation, child as she was, she was sustained and comforted by
the thought that she was suffering for doing right.

When Ida failed to return on the appointed day, the Hardings, though
disappointed, did not think it strange.

"If I were her mother," said the cooper's wife, "and had been parted
from her for so long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear
heart! how pretty she is and how proud her mother must be of her!"

"It's all a delusion," said Rachel, shaking her head, solemnly. "It's
all a delusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs.
Hardwick is an impostor. I know it, and told you so at the time, but you
wouldn't believe me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in this
world."

The next day passed, and still no tidings of Jack's ward. Her young
guardian, though not as gloomy as Aunt Rachel, looked unusually serious.

There was a cloud of anxiety even upon the cooper's usually placid face,
and he was more silent than usual at the evening meal. At night, after
Jack and his aunt had retired, he said, anxiously: "What do you think is
the cause of Ida's prolonged absence, Martha?"

"I can't tell," said his wife, seriously. "It seems to me, if her mother
wanted to keep her longer it would be no more than right that she should
drop us a line. She must know that we would feel anxious."

"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of no one else."

"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, I
shall be seriously troubled."

"Suppose she should never come back," suggested the cooper, very
soberly.

"Oh, husband, don't hint at such a thing," said his wife.

"We must contemplate it as a possibility," said Timothy, gravely,
"though not, as I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an undoubted
right to her."

"Then it would be better if she had never been placed in our charge,"
said Martha, tearfully, "for we should not have had the pain of parting
with her."

"Not so, Martha," her husband said, seriously. "We ought to be grateful
for God's blessings, even if He suffers us to retain them but a short
time. And Ida has been a blessing to us all, I am sure. The memory of
that can't be taken from us, Martha. There's some lines I came across in
the paper to-night that express just what I've been sayin'. Let me find
them."

The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns of
the daily paper till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson, which
he read aloud:

"'I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.'"


"There, wife," he said, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know who
writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great
sorrow and conquered it."

"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare say
you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have to learn the truth of
them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that Ida will come
back."

"At any rate," said her husband, "there is no doubt that it is our duty
to take every means that we can to recover Ida. Of course, if her mother
insists upon keepin' her, we can't say anything; but we ought to be sure
of that before we yield her up."

"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Martha.

"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said the cooper. "Very likely
there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel more
anxious."

"You have already aroused my anxiety. I should feel better if you would
speak out."

"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes been tempted," he
continued, lowering his voice, "to doubt whether Ida's mother really
sent for her."

"How do you account for the letter, then?"

"I have thought--mind, it is only a guess--that Mrs. Hardwick may have
got somebody to write it for her."

"It is very singular," murmured Martha.

"What is singular?"

"Why, the very same thought has occurred to me. Somehow, I can't help
feeling a little distrustful of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps unjustly.
What object can she have in getting possession of the child?"

"That I can't conjecture; but I have come to one determination."

"What is that?"

"Unless we learn something of Ida within a week from the time she left
here, I shall go on to Philadelphia, or else send Jack, and endeavor to
get track of her."




CHAPTER XXI

AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS


The week slipped away, and still no tidings of Ida. The house seemed
lonely without her. Not until then did they understand how largely she
had entered into their life and thoughts. But worse even than the sense
of loss was the uncertainty as to her fate.

"It is time that we took some steps about finding Ida," the cooper said.
"I would like to go to Philadelphia myself, to make inquiries about her,
but I am just now engaged upon a job which I cannot very well leave, and
so I have concluded to send Jack."

"When shall I start?" exclaimed Jack.

"To-morrow morning," answered his father.

"What good do you think it will do," interposed Rachel, "to send a mere
boy like Jack to Philadelphia?"

"A mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly.

"A boy hardly sixteen years old," continued Rachel. "Why, he'll need
somebody to take care of him. Most likely you'll have to go after him."

"What's the use of provoking a fellow so, Aunt Rachel?" said Jack. "You
know I'm 'most eighteen. Hardly sixteen! Why, I might as well say you're
hardly forty, when we all know you're fifty."

"Fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "It's a base slander. I'm
only thirty-seven."

"Maybe I'm mistaken," said Jack, carelessly. "I didn't know exactly how
old you were; I only judged from your looks."

At this point, Rachel applied a segment of a pocket handkerchief to her
eyes; but, unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect instead of
being pathetic, as she intended it to be, was simply ludicrous.

It so happened that a short time previous, the inkstand had been
partially spilled upon the table, through Jack's carelessness and this
handkerchief had been used to sop it up. It had been placed
inadvertently upon the window seat, where it had remained until Rachel,
who was sitting beside the window, called it into requisition. The ink
upon it was by no means dry. The consequence was, that, when Rachel
removed it from her eyes, her face was discovered to be covered with ink
in streaks mingling with the tears that were falling, for Rachel always
had a plentiful supply of tears at command.

The first intimation the luckless spinster had of her mishap was
conveyed in a stentorian laugh from Jack.

He looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow on his aunt's face--of
which she was yet unconscious--and doubling up, went off into a perfect
paroxysm of laughter.

"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the cause
of his amusement, "it's improper for you to laugh at your aunt in such a
rude manner."

"Oh, I can't help it, mother. Just look at her."

Thus invited, Mrs. Harding did look, and the rueful expression of
Rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical, that,
after a hard struggle, she too gave way, and followed Jack's example.

Astonished and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her
sister-in-law, Rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again had
recourse to the handkerchief.

"This is too much!" she sobbed. "I've stayed here long enough, if even
my sister-in-law, as well as my own nephew, from whom I expect nothing
better, makes me her laughingstock. Brother Timothy, I can no longer
remain in your dwelling to be laughed at; I will go to the poorhouse and
end my miserable existence as a common pauper. If I only receive
Christian burial when I leave the world, it will be all I hope or expect
from my relatives, who will be glad enough to get rid of me."

The second application of the handkerchief had so increased the effect,
that Jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while the cooper,
whose attention was now drawn to his sister's face, burst out in a
similar manner.

This more amazed Rachel than Martha's merriment.

"Even you, Timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed,
in an "_Et tu, Brute_" tone.

"We don't mean to ridicule you, Rachel," gasped her sister-in-law, "but
we can't help laughing."

"At the prospect of my death!" uttered Rachel, in a tragic tone. "Well,
I'm a poor, forlorn creetur, I know. Even my nearest relations make
sport of me, and when I speak of dying, they shout their joy to my
face."

"Yes," gasped Jack, nearly choking, "that's it exactly. It isn't your
death we're laughing at, but your face."

"My face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "One would think I was a
fright by the way you laugh at it."

"So you are!" said Jack, with a fresh burst of laughter.

"To be called a fright to my face!" shrieked Rachel, "by my own nephew!
This is too much. Timothy, I leave your house forever."

The excited maiden seized her hood; which was hanging from a nail, and
was about to leave the house when she was arrested in her progress
toward the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to
say: "Before you go, Rachel, just look in the glass."

Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon a
face streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every direction.

In her first confusion Rachel jumped to the conclusion that she had been
suddenly stricken by the plague. Accordingly she began to wring her
hands in an excess of terror, and exclaimed in tones of piercing
anguish:

"It is the fatal plague spot! I am marked for the tomb. The sands of my
life are fast running out."

This convulsed Jack afresh with merriment, so that an observer might,
not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent danger of
suffocation.

"You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel! I know you will," he gasped.

"You may order my coffin, Timothy," said Rachel, in a sepulchral voice;
"I shan't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for a week
past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like to have
some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help."

"I think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "you will find the
cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague spots, as you
call them."

Rachel turned toward him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes rested
for the first time upon the handkerchief she had used, its appearance at
once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own.

Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the
ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did
not make her appearance again till the next morning.

After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's
approaching journey.

"I don't know," said his mother, "but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack
isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake such
a mission."

"Now, mother," expostulated Jack, "you ain't going to side against me,
are you?"

"There is no better plan," said his father, quietly.




CHAPTER XXII

THE FLOWER GIRL

Henry Bowen was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the
farm on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his
favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest
success. But he had good taste and a skillful hand, and his productions
were pleasing and popular. He had formed a connection with a publisher
of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way.

"Have you any new commission to-day?" inquired the young artist, on the
day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed to pass off
spurious coin.

"Yes," said the publisher, "I have thought of something which may prove
attractive. Just at present, pictures of children seem to be popular. I
should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower girl, with,
say, a basket of flowers in her hand. Do you comprehend my idea?"

"I believe I do," answered the artist. "Give me sufficient time, and I
hope to satisfy you."

The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he had
undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but found
himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not sufficiently lively,
or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to produce the effect he
desired. The faces which he successively outlined were all stiff, and
though beautiful in feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive
and lifelike.

"What is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently. "Is it
impossible for me to succeed? It's clear," he decided, "that I am not in
the vein. I will go out and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the
street something may strike me."

He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and emerged into the great
thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng. It was only natural
that, as he walked, with his task uppermost in his thoughts, he should
scrutinize carefully the faces of such young girls as he met.

"Perhaps," it occurred to him, "I may get a hint from some face I see.
It is strange," he mused, "how few there are, even in the freshness of
childhood, that can be called models of beauty. That child, for example,
has beautiful eyes, but a badly cut mouth. Here is one that would be
pretty, if the face were rounded out; and here is a child--Heaven help
it!--that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable
circumstances have pinched and cramped it."

It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the
corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.

The artist looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up
with sudden pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he had
begun to despair of it.

"The very face I have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself. "My
flower girl is found at last."

He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at a
shop window to examine some articles which were on exhibition there.

"It is precisely the face I want," he murmured. "Nothing could be more
appropriate or charming. With that face the success of the picture is
assured."

The artist's inference that Peg was Ida's attendant was natural, since
the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. Peg
thought that this would enable her, with less risk, to pass spurious
coin.

The young man followed the strangely assorted pair to the apartments
which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he learned
that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between
the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had the guardianship of
the child. This made his course clearer. He mounted the stairs and
knocked at the door.

"What do you want?" demanded a sharp voice.

"I should like to see you just a moment," was the reply.

Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously.

"I don't know you," she said, shortly.

"I presume not," said the young man, courteously. "We have never met,
I think. I am an artist. I hope you will pardon my present intrusion."

"There is no use in your coming here," said Peg, abruptly, "and you may
as well go away. I don't want to buy any pictures. I've got plenty of
better ways to spend my money than to throw it away on such trash."

No one would have thought of doubting Peg's word, for she looked far
from being a patron of the arts.

"You have a young girl living with you, about seven or eight years old,
have you not?" inquired the artist.