trustworthy hands than yours until we ride back. Bessie, my dear,
what do you say to that as a lesson in economy inflicted on a
prudent husband by a spendthrift wife?"

She took Mr. Knifton's arm while she spoke, and drew him away to
the door. He protested and made some resistance, but she easily
carried her point, for he was far too fond of her to have a will
of his own in any trifling matter between them. Whatever the men
might say, Mr. Knifton was a model husband in the estimation of
all the women who knew him.

"You will see us as we come back, Bessie. Till then, you are our
banker, and the pocketbook is yours," cried Mrs. Knifton, gayly,
at the door. Her husband lifted her into the saddle, mounted
himself, and away they both galloped over the moor as wild and
happy as a couple of children.

Although my being trusted with money by Mrs. Knifton was no
novelty (in her maiden days she always employed me to pay her
dress-maker's bills), I did not feel quite easy at having a
pocketbook full of bank-notes left by her in my charge. I had no
positive apprehensions about the safety of the deposit placed in
my hands, but it was one of the odd points in my character then
(and I think it is still) to feel an unreasonably strong
objection to charging myself with money responsibilities of any
kind, even to suit the convenience of my dearest friends. As soon
as I was left alone, the very sight of the pocketbook behind the
glass door of the book-case began to worry me, and instead of
returning to my work, I puzzled my brains about finding a place
to lock it up in, where it would not be exposed to the view of