But Bushrod grasped the satchel with a firmer hand. The headlights 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 wasn’ 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 in old, marse Robert. ‘Tain’t goin’ to be long tell 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 de 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 someone invisible. The bell changed, 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 this 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.

Then, awake to the necessity for further guardianship of Weymouth trust funds, the old man started for the bank with the redeemed satchel.

Three hours from Weymouthville, in the grey dawn, Mr. Robert alighted from the train at a lonely flag- station. Dimly he could see the figure of a man waiting on the platform, and the shape of a spring-waggon, team and driver. Half a dozen lengthy fishing-poles projected from the waggon’s rear.

“You’re here, Bob,” said Judge Archinard, Mr. Robert’s old friend and schoolmate. “It’s going to be a royal day for fishing. I thought you said—why, didn’t you bring along the stuff?”

The president of the Weymouth Bank took off his hat and rumpled his grey locks.

“Well, Ben, to tell you the truth, there’s an infernally presumptuous old nigger belonging in my family that broke up the arrangement. He came down to the depot and vetoed the whole proceeding. He means all right, and—well, I reckon he is right. Somehow, he had found out what I had along—though I hid it in the bank vault and sneaked it out at midnight. I reckon he has noticed that I’ve been indulging a little more than a gentleman should, and he laid for me with some reaching arguments.

“I’m going to quit drinking,” Mr. Robert concluded. “I’ve come to the conclusion that a man can’t keep it up and be quite what he’d like to be—‘pure and fearless and without reproach’ —that’s the way old Bushrod quoted it.”