hat I meant to tell you about. You've given me an
address to remember: let me give you another in exchange for it--No. 91
Earl Street East, Spitalfields. That's where mother lives, if the poor
soul is alive to whom you wrote for me from Cross Key. She'll be dead,
however, long before you or I get out of this, that's certain, or I
should not be telling you what I do; for one's mother is the best friend
of all friends, and should come first and foremost. Well, the money will
do her no good; and if any thing happens to me, I have neither chick nor
child to inherit it. I am speaking of this eight hundred pound, lad. If
I get into the world, I shall want it for myself, for I doubt my limbs
will be too stiff for work by that time; but if not, then you shall have
it--every shilling. I am digging my own grave, as it might be, with this
spade, and making my will, do you see?" said the old fellow, smiling.

"I thank you for your kind intentions," returned Richard, absently;
"it's very good of you, I'm sure." His hopes of some scheme of present
release had been excited by the old man's manner, and this faint and
far-off prospect of a legateeship seemed but of little worth.

"I may not have another chance to tell you about it," resumed Balfour.
"It is five years now since you and I spoke together last, and it may be
another five years before such good luck happens again; so don't forget
91 Earl Street East. It's under the middle stone of the back kitchen,
all in golden quids. You needn't mind it being 'swag;' and as for those
whose own it is by rights, I could not tell you who the half of it
belonged to, if I would. It's the savings of an industrious life, lad,"
added Mr. Balfour, pathetically; "and I should be sorry to think, if any
thing happened to me, that it should lie there useless, or be found
accidental like, and perhaps fall into the hands of the bluebottles.
Your memory's good, my lad, I dare say, and you won't forget the number
nor the street."

"My memory is very good, friend," returned Richard, slowly; "and I have
only two or three things else to keep in it. And you, on your part, you
will not forget the mine?"

"Nay, nay; I've got it safe: Wheal Danes, Wheal Danes."

"Silence, down there!" roared the warder; and nothing but the squeak of
the barrow-wheel and the clean slice of the spade was heard in all that
throng of involuntary toilers.

CHAPTER XXXV.

BASIL.

It is nineteen years since Richard York