'I didn't be wanting a parson, but a relation, sir; and I don't be going to die yet. Look you here. There's money in the bank—there's more in mortgages on Davies, Llansadwn, and Rees, Llanarthney—there's more on loan to Griffiths, Pontardewé,—Jones, Glantewey,—Pugh the draper, Llansant—and others. And there's a box beside. Mind you, I 'ont die yet, but I tell you, because I can trust you; and Howel don't know nothing.'
'May I write it down for you, Uncle Griff; or would you have a lawyer?'
'No, no. I've had enough of law in paying for Howel, and nothing come of it. But you may be writing down a little. Here, in that chest, there's pen, ink and paper; tak' you my keys, and open you it.'
Griffith Jenkins took from under his pillow a bunch of keys, and fumbling amongst them, gave one to Rowland, with which he opened the chest, and procured the necessary writing apparatus.
'Give you me my keys—quick, quick!' cried the old man, again hiding them somewhere in his bed.'
At his dictation, Rowland wrote a list of the different moneys he possessed in various places, and was utterly astonished to find that he had soon written down between sixty and seventy thousand pounds. Everybody knew that Griffith Jenkins was rich, but nobody had guessed how rich he was.
'Now say, "I give and bequeath to my wife, 'Lizbeth Jenkins, ten thousand pound out of the aforesaid mortgage on Jacob Davies Llansadwn's property."'
'Is that all, Uncle Griff?'
'Yes, I sha'n't say no more.'
'And the box of gold?'