More mystified than ever, she drew up a heavy old teapot of Britannia metal—never had she handled such a weighty pot.
“Pour it out! Pour it out!” he chuckled.
She held the spout over her jug, which made him laugh till he nearly died. But by thumping his shoulders she got his breath back. She understood now what moved his mirth, for though nothing had issued from the spout, the lid had burst open and a rain of gold pieces had come spinning and rolling all over the hut. It seemed like the stories the old people told of the treasures of gnomes and pixies. There seemed hundreds of them, glittering and twirling.
“All for you, Jinny,” he panted with his recovered breath. “All for you.”
“Why, wherever did you get all this?” she replied, dropping on her knees to gather the shimmering spilth.
“That’s all honest, Jinny, don’t be scat. ’Tis the pennies Oi’ve put together, man and buo-oy this sixty year and more.”
“But what for?” she gasped.
“For you. And fowrpence or fi’pence a day tots up.”
“No, I mean why did you do it?” Her brain refused to take in the idea that all this fabulous wealth was hers. “Why didn’t you live more comfortable—why didn’t you get another cottage?”
“Oi ain’t never been so happy as since Farmer tarned me out. To lay on the earth, that’s what Oi wanted all my life—onny Oi dedn’t know it.”