"Now, squire," said he, "let us hear it; and I do hope it may be something that may make your mind quiet at last. You've had, I fear, a bad time of it since the old squire died."
"Indeed I have, Mr Griffith."
"What is it now? Whatever it be, you may be sure of this, I will take it charitable like. I won't take nothing amiss; and if so be I can help you, I will."
Cousin Henry, as the door had been opened, and as the man's footstep had been heard, had made up his mind that on this occasion he could not reveal the secret. He had disabled himself by that unfortunate manner of his yesterday. He would not even turn his eyes upon the book, but sat looking into the empty grate. "What is it, Mr Jones?" asked the farmer.
"My uncle did make a will," said Cousin Henry feebly.
"Of course he made a will. He made a many,—one or two more than was wise, I am thinking."
"He made a will after the last one."
"After that in your favour?"
"Yes; after that. I know that he did, by what I saw him doing; and so I thought I'd tell you."
"Is that all?"