“Well, Colonel, yes, but not sorry to see you back.  It’s lonesome like down here with these deaders.”

“Very well.  Look out!  There’s a bag.  Put as much gold in it as you can lift comfortably, and then make it fast to the rope.”

Some three minutes passed, and then George announced that the bagful of gold was ready.  Harold hauled away, and with a considerable effort brought it to the surface.  Then, lifting the bag on his shoulder he staggered with it to the house.  In his room stood a massive sea-going chest, the companion of his many wanderings.  It was about half full of uniforms and old clothes, which he bundled unceremoniously on to the floor.  This done, he shot the bagful of shining gold, as bright and uncorrupted now as when it was packed away two and a half centuries ago, into the chest, and returned for another load.

About twenty times did he make this journey.  At the tenth something happened.

“Here’s a writing, sir, with this lot,” shouted George.  “It was packed away in the money.”

He took the “writing,” or rather parchment, out of the mouth of the bag, and put it in his pocket unread.

At length the store, enormous as it was, was exhausted.

“That’s the lot, sir,” shouted George, as he sent up the last bagful.  “If you’ll kindly let down that there rope, I’ll come up too.”

“All right,” said the Colonel, “put the skeleton back first.”

“Well, sir,” answered George, “he looks wonderful comfortable where he lay, he du, so if you’re agreeable I think I’ll let him be.”

Harold chuckled, and presently George arrived, covered with filth and perspiration.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I never did think that I should get dead tired of handling gold coin, but it’s a rum world, and that’s a fact.  Well, I niver, and the summer-house gone, and jist look at thim there oaks.  Well, if that beant a master one.”

“You never saw a masterer, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?  Well, and take one thing with another, nor did I, George, if that’s any comfort to you.  Now look here, just cover over this hole with some boards and earth, and then come in and get some breakfast.  It’s past eight o’clock and the gale is blowing itself out.  A merry Christmas to you, George!” and he held out his hand, covered with cuts, grime and blood.

George shook it.  “Same to you, Colonel, I’m sure.  And a merry Christmas it is.  God bless you, sir, for what you’ve done to-night.  You’ve saved the old place from that banker chap, that’s what you’ve done; and you’ll hev Miss Ida, and I’m durned glad on it, that I am.  Lord! won’t this make the Squire open his eyes,” and the honest fellow brushed away a tear and fairly capered with joy, his red nightcap waving on the wind.

It was a strange and beautiful sight to see the solemn George capering thus in the midst of that storm-swept desolation.