Dan sat down on the form, and put a big hand on each knee.
“Well, it’s some’at like t’ shepherd comin’ to count t’ sheep, to see ’at none of ’em’s missin’,” said he. “It’s so easy to get lost of a big moor full o’ pits and quagmires. And this world’s some’at like it.—Ah, Avice! folks as goes a-sight-seeing mun expect to find things of a mixtur’ when they gets home.”
“A very pleasant mixture, Uncle,” said Avice. “Pray you of your blessing, holy Father.”
Father Thomas gave it, and Bertha, stooping down, kissed Dan on his broad wrinkled forehead.
“Did thou get a penny?” asked Dan.
“I got two!” cried Bertha, triumphantly. “And Aunt Avice got one. Did you, Father?”
“Nay, lass—none o’ my luck! Silver pennies and such knows better nor to come my way. Nor they’d better not, without they’ll come right number. I should get tore to bits if I went home wi’ one, as like as not. She ’d want it, and so ’d Ankaret, and so ’d Susanna, and so ’d Mildred; and atwixt ’em all it ’d get broke i’ pieces, and so should I. And see thou, it’s made i’ quarters, and I amn’t, so it wouldn’t come so convenient to me.”
Pennies were then made with a deep cross cut athwart them, so that they were easily broken, when wanted, into halfpence and farthings, for there were no separate ones coined.
“Father, have one of mine!” cried Bertha at the beginning of Dan’s answer.
“Nay, nay, lass! Keep thy bit o’ silver—or if thou wants to give it, let Emma have it. She’ll outlive it; I shouldn’t.”