reasures that rust and moth corrupt not, and which
thieves do not break through to steal.

Daddy Darwin died of old age. As his health failed, Jack nursed him with
the tenderness of a woman; and kind inquiries, and dainties which Jack
could not have cooked, came in from many quarters where it pleased the
old man to find that he was held in respect and remembrance.

One afternoon, coming in from the farmyard, Jack found him sitting by
the kitchen-table as he lad left him, but with a dread look of change
upon his face. At first he feared there had been "a stroke," but Daddy
Darwin's mind was clear and his voice firmer than usual.

"My lad," he said, "fetch me yon tea-pot out of the corner cupboard. T'
one wi' a pole-house[7] painted on it, and some letters. Take care how
ye shift it. It were t' merry feast-pot[8] at my christening, and yon's
t' letters of my father's and mother's names. Take off t' lid. There's
two bits of paper in the inside."

[Footnote 7: A _pole-house_ is a small dovecot on the top of a pole.]

[Footnote 8: "Merry feast-pot" is a name given to old pieces of ware,
made in local potteries for local festivals.]

Jack did as he was bid, and laid the papers (one small and yellow with
age, the other bigger, and blue, and neatly written upon) at his
master's right hand.

"Read yon," said the old man, pushing the small one towards him. Jack
took it up wondering. It was the letter he had written from the
workhouse fifteen years before. That was all he could see. The past
surged up too thickly before his eyes, and tossing it impetuously from
him, he dropped on a chair by the table, and snatching Daddy Darwin's
hands he held them to his face with tears.

"GOD bless thee!" he sobbed. "You've been a good maester to me!"

"_Daddy_," wheezed the old man. "_Daddy_, not maester." And
drawing his right hand away, he laid it solemnly on the young man's
head. "GOD bless _thee_, and reward thee. What have I done i' my
feckless life to deserve a son? But if ever a lad earned a father and a
home, thou hast earned 'em, Jack March."

He moved his hand again and laid it trembling on the paper.

"Every word i' this letter ye've made good. Every word, even to t' bit
at the end. 'I love them tumblers as if they were my own,' says you.
Lift thee head, lad, and look at me. _They are thy own!_... Yon
blue paper's my last will and testament, made many a year back by Mr.
Brown, of Green Street, Solicitor, and a very nice g