"Ter'rible news, ain't it? The old lady gone. But that ain't why
I've stopped you. 'Tis she bade me give your missus a message--as
she hadn't forgot the bequest of money. But we're that muddled and
busy at the Ship, I can't go to the Punch-Bowl, so I just runned
after you. You'll take the message for me, won't you?"

"Money!" exclaimed Bideabout, reining in old Clutch, who now
objected to be stayed on his way to the familiar stable. "Money!"
repeated Bideatout, and then lugged at old Clutch's rein till he
had turned the brute about.

The horse had sufficient obstinacy in him to persist in his
intentions of not being stopped on the high-road, and though
turned round he continued to scramble along in the reverse direction
to his home.

"Hang you, you old toad!" exclaimed Jonas. "If you will, I don't
care. Be it so. We will go to the Ship. I say, Joe! What was that
about money?"

"It was that the missus made me promise to inform your missus,
that she'd not forgotten her undertakin', but had made provision
that she should have the money as she wished."

"The money--how much?"'

"I do not know. She did not say."

"And she has left money to Matabel?"

"I suppose so. She was always amazin' fond of her. She was a savin'
woman, and had put away something of her own."

"I'll go to the Ship. I will, certainly. I ought not to have passed
without a word with Simon on his loss. I suppose he's sure to know
how much it is?"

"I suppose so. Missus would consult him. She made a show o' that
always, but nevertheless followed her own head."

"And Simon is terrible cut up?"

"Bears it like a man."

"Here, take old Clutch; give him some oats, and kick him, he
deserves it, he's been so unruly. But, stay--no. Hold his head,
and I'll kick him, afore he's had his oats. He's a darned malicious
old Radical. Put in some pepper to his nose when he's done his
oats."

Bideabout went into the house, through the porch, and entered the
bar.

Simon was seated there smoking a long clay, with his feet on the
fender, before a glowing fire, and with a stiff glass of hot punch
on the table at his side.

"Sorry for you," was Jonas's brief address of salutation and
condolence.

Mr. Verstage shook his head. "That's what my old woman said."

Seeing an expression of surprise and query in the Broom-Squire's
face, he explained: "Not after, afore, in course. She said, 'Very
sorry for you, Simon, very. It's wus for you than for me, I shall