His thoughts were deeper than the soil. And every evening up came the old topic. Oh! how sick George got of it. At last one night he said: “My lad, I should like to tell you a story—but I suppose I shall make a bungle of it; shan't cut the furrow clean I am doubtful.”
“Never mind; try!”
“Well, then. Once upon a time there was an old chap that had heard or read about treasures being found in odd places, a pot full of guineas or something; and it took root in his heart till nothing would serve him but he must find a pot of guineas, too; he used to poke about all the old ruins, grubbing away, and would have taken up the floor of the church, but the churchwardens would not have it. One morning he comes down and says to his wife, 'It is all right, old woman, I've found the treasure.'
“'No! have you, though?' says she.
“'Yes!' says he; 'leastways, it is as good as found; it is only waiting till I've had my breakfast, and then I'll go out and fetch it in.'
“'La, John, but how did you find it?'
“'It was revealed to me in a dream,' says he, as grave as a judge.
“'And where is it?' asks the old woman.
“'Under a tree in our own orchard—no farther,' says he.
“'Oh, John! how long you are at breakfast to-day!' Up they both got and into the orchard. 'Now, which tree is it under?'