Horb, Ivo stopped. The horse stood still;
the plough rested in the furrow; Ivo and Nat folded their hands: the
dun seemed to be praying too,--at least he flung his head up and down
more than once. They then drew the furrow to the end, sat down on the
fallow, and eat some bread.

"If we were to find a treasure to-day," said Ivo, "like that farmer,
you know, that Emmerence's mother told of, that found a heap of ducats
right under his foot when he was ploughing, I'd buy Emmerence a new
gown and pay her father's debt on his house. What would you do?"

"Nothing," said Nat: "I don't want money."

He went to work again, and found it so easy that he began to sing,--not
of ploughing or sowing, though, nor of any thing connected with work in
the fields:--

"Oh, we are sisters three,--
Kitty and Lizzie, and she,
The youngest, she let the boy come in.

"She hid him behind the door
Till her father and mother were gone to sleep;
Then she brought him out once more.

"She carried him up the stairs,
And into her chamber she let him in,
And she threw him into the street.

"She threw him against a stone,
And his heart in his body he broke in two,
And also his shoulder-bone.

"He pick'd himself up to go home;
'Oh, mother, I fell and I broke my arm
Against such a hard, hard stone.'

"'My son, and it serves you right,
For not coming home with the other boys,
But running about at night.'

"So he went up-stairs to bed.
At the stroke of twelve he was full of fright,
At the stroke of one he was dead."

Here Nat jerked the rein, fixed his hat more firmly on his head, and
sang, perhaps in remembrance of the past:--

"You good-for-nothing boy,
Your drink is all your joy;
Dancing's what you're made for,
And your coat has never been paid for.

"If I'm a little short,
What need you care for't?
When I've emptied my glass
They'll fill it, I guess.

"If I can't pay the score
They'll mark it on the door,
So every one can read
That I'm running to seed.

"So seedy I've grown,
Not a thing is my own:
The world's here