“Point of death?” cried the old man.  “Said I was on the point of death, did she?  A cursed old fool!”

“Ha ha ha!” said Sivert.

The old man looked sternly at him.  “Eh?  Laugh at a dying man, do you, and you called after me and all!”

But Sivert was too young to put on a graveyard face for that; he had never cared much for his uncle.  And now he wanted to get back home again.

“Ho, so you thought so, too?” said the old man again.  “Thought I was at my last gasp, and that fetched you, did it?”

“’Twas Oline said so,” answered Sivert.

His uncle was silent for a while, then spoke again:  “Look you here.  If you’ll mend that net of mine and put it right, I’ll show you something.”

“H’m,” said Sivert.  “What is it?”

“Well, never you mind,” said the old man sullenly, and went to bed again.

It was going to be a long business, evidently.  Sivert writhed uncomfortably.  He went out and took a look round the place; everything was shamefully neglected and uncared for; it was hopeless to begin work here.  When he came in after a while, his uncle was sitting up, warming himself at the stove.

“See that?” He pointed to an oak chest on the floor at his feet.  It was his money chest.  As a matter of fact, it was a lined case made to hold bottles, such as visiting justices and other great folk used to carry with them when travelling about the country in the old days, but there were no bottles in it now; the old man had used it for his documents and papers as district treasurer; he kept his accounts and his money in it now.  The story ran that it was full of uncounted riches; the village folk would shake their heads and say:  “Ah! if I’d only as much as lies in old Sivert his chest!”

Uncle Sivert took out a paper from the box and said solemnly:  “You can read writing, I suppose?”

Little Sivert was not by any means a great hand at that, it is true, but he made out so much as told him he was to inherit all that his uncle might leave at his death.

“There,” said the old man.  “And now you can do as you please.”  And he laid the paper back in the chest.

Sivert was not greatly impressed; after all, the paper told him no more than he had known before; ever since he was a child he had heard say that he was to have what Uncle Sivert left one day.  A sight of the treasure would be another matter.

“There’s some fine things in that chest, I doubt,” said he.

“There’s more than you think,” said the old man shortly.

He was angry and disappointed with his nephew; he locked up the box and went to bed again.  There he lay, delivering jets of information.  “I’ve been district treasurer and warden of the public moneys in this village over thirty year; I’ve no need to beg and pray for a helping hand from any man!  Who told Oline, I’d like to know, that I was on my deathbed?  I can send three men, carriage