Rob and Nelly went back to the wagon. All Nelly's anemones and daisies were lying on the ground, withered. Even this one short hour of hot sun had been enough to kill them.
"Oh, my poor, dear flowers!" said Nelly, picking them up. "How could I forget you!" and she looked at them as sorrowfully as if they were little babies she had neglected.
"Pooh, Nell," cried Rob. "They're no good now. Throw them in the brook, and come look at the silver."
They both climbed up on the tongue of the wagon and looked in at the front.
"I can't see any silver about it," said Nelly; "it don't look like any thing but little gray stones, all broken up into bits."
"No," said Rob: "it don't shine much;" and he picked up a bit and held it out in the sun.
"Oh, take care! take care, Rob!" cried Nelly. "Don't lose it; it might be as much as a quarter of a dollar, that bit."
"Nell, said Rob, earnestly, "don't you wish papa had a mine, and we could dig up all the money we wanted? oh, my!" and Rob drew in his breath in a long whistle.
"Yes," said Nelly: "I mean to look for one. Do you find the holes already dug, do you suppose? Perhaps that place where old Molly tumbled in was a mine."
Old Molly was one of their cows, who had tumbled one day into a hole made by a slide of earth; and Zeb had had to go down and tie ropes around her to pull her up.