"No," said I, without looking up, but slipping my hand into my pocket; "no, Ancient—"
"Peter—Oh, Peter!—do 'ee mean—?"
"I mean that, although it had no heart, the staple was tired and worn out—just as you are, and so I brought it to you," and I slipped the rusty bit of iron into the old man's trembling palm.
"O Lord—!" he began in a fervent voice, "O dear Lord!—I got it, Lord—th' owd stapil—I be ready to come to Thee, an' j'yful—j'yful! an' for this mercy, an' benefit received—blessed be Thy name. Amen!"
He lay very quiet for a while, with the broken staple clasped to his breast, and his eyes closed.
"Peter," said he suddenly, "you won't 'ave no one to bring you noos no more—why, Peter! be 'ee cryin'—for me? 'Tis true 't were me as found ye, but I didn't think as you'd go to cry tears for me—I be goin' to tak' t' owd stapil wi' me, Peter, all along the road—an', Peter—"
"Yes, Ancient?"
"Be you quite sure as you aren't a dook?"
"Quite sure."
"Nor a earl?"