“The chapel,” replied Mr. Stiggins; “our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel.”
“She hasn’t left the fold nothin’, nor the shepherd nothin’, nor the animals nothin’,” said Sam, decisively; “nor the dogs neither.”
Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who was sitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair still nearer, said:
“Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel?”
Sam shook his head.
“I think there’s something,” said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could turn. “Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?”
“Not so much as the vorth o’ that ’ere old umberella o’ yourn,” replied Sam.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Stiggins, hesitatingly, after a few moments’ deep thought, “perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr. Samuel?”
“I think that’s wery likely, from what he said,” rejoined Sam; “he wos speakin’ about you, jist now.”
“Was he, though?” exclaimed Stiggins, brightening up. “Ah! He’s changed, I dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel, eh? I could take care of his property when you are away—good care, you see.”