hanked for all His mercies!"

'Twas my father's will, dusty, gnawed at the edges, but indubitably
the will which had disappeared seven years before. Remembering the
hiding place in which Cyrus had secreted the money at Penolver, it
was no mystery to me that he should have fashioned a similar
receptacle for the will he had purloined.

There is no need to tell of the congratulations showered upon me;
My hand was wrung by my kind neighbors until it tingled with
numbness. Mistress Vetch fell into hysterics--mercilessly ignored
by Mr. Pinhorn. And as for Captain Galsworthy, he seemed incapable
of doing anything but repeat his question, chuckling aloud "Can
anyone tell me why 'tis called the funny bone?"

The party soon broke up, to carry the news far and wide through
Shrewsbury. And I, after an affecting five minutes with the lawyer,
suddenly stuffed the paper in my pocket, flung on my hat, and ran
out with furious haste to saddle my horse. Mistress Vetch came to
the door as I mounted.

"Mind you speak the villain plain," she cried.

I laughed joyfully and galloped away up Pride Hill. The tale of my
discovery had already got abroad; the people came to their doors
and cheered me, and some little fellows of the school stood in the
middle of the road and waved their caps and shouted "Huzzay for
Captain Bold!"

But I did not ride straight on towards the Wem Road and Cludde
Court, as Becky had supposed I intended. I turned into Dogpole,
rode helter skelter down Wyle Cop in the very course where Joe's
barrel had rolled, and never drew rein until I came to the door of
the Hall. 'Twas opened to me by Roger, home from following the
campaign in Flanders--a strapping fine fellow, near as tall as
myself.

"Gad, but your horse is in a sweat!" he said by way of greeting.
(We laughed at it afterwards.).

"Where is Lucy?" I said.

He stared at me for a moment, then burst into a hearty roar.

"Up you go," says he, clapping me on the back. "Egad, and I'll go
and find the squire."

That is more than forty years ago. My hand is weary with writing:
why should I tell you more? There is indeed little more to tell,
for from that time, thank God, there have been no mischances in my
life. Yet maybe those who have read my story patiently hereto (if
any there be) may like to have it rounded off--totus, teres, et
rotundus.

A few weeks after I regained possession of my little property Sir
Richard Cludde died--of gout and other diseases