Again the miser grasped Rowland's hand, and fixed his keen eyes on his face.
'I 'ont be dying yet, and I 'ont be putting that down to-night. Tell you your father what there is, without the box, and without more mortgages and loans; but don't you be talking to anybody about it. Mind you, not to Howel nor to 'Lizbeth: promise me.'
Rowland promised.
The miser fell back exhausted.
'And now Uncle Griff, may I pray for you? Only think how soon you may be called to your account, to say exactly how you have employed your time, and the talents given—'
'I have done plenty—plenty—all out at interest, at five, six, even ten per cent.; none wrapped up in a napkin. I don't be calling a box a napkin, Rowland Prothero.'
'May I call in Mrs Jenkins and Howel, and pray for you? Think; oh think, of the great Judge, and great Mediator. O God, have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!'
As Rowland said this, he clasped his hands, and looked upwards, in unutterable supplication. The old man was alarmed.
'I don't be going to die, but you may call 'em in.'
Rowland rose and obeyed. Mrs Jenkins appeared with a candle in her hand. The old man rose with an effort as she drew near the bed.