CHAPTER IV.
THE LOST THEFT.
Stealthily and quickly "honest Roger" crept away, for his conscience smote him on the instant: he felt he had done wrong; at any rate, the sovereign was not his--and once the thought arose in him to run back, and put it where he found it: but it was now become too precious in his sight, that little bit of gold--and they, the rioters there, could not want it, might not even miss it; and then its righteous uses--it should be well spent, even if ill-got: and thus, so many mitigations crowded in to excuse, if not to applaud the action, that within a little while his warped mind had come to call the theft a god-send.
O Roger, Roger! alas for this false thought of that wrong deed! the poisonous gold has touched thy heart, and left on it a spot of cancer: the asp has bitten thee already, simple soul.

This little seed will grow into a huge black pine, that shall darken for a while thy heaven, and dig its evil roots around thy happiness.

Put it away, Roger, put it away: covet not unhallowed gold.
But Roger felt far otherwise; and this sudden qualm of conscience once quelled (I will say there seemed much of palliation in the matter), a kind of inebriate feeling of delight filled his mind, and Steady Acton plodded on to the meadow yonder, half a mile a-head, in a species of delirious complacency.

Here was luck indeed, filling up the promise of his dreams.

His head was full of thoughts, pleasant holiday thoughts, of the many little useful things, the many small indulgences, that bit of gold should buy him.