“Daughter, daughter, I tell you plainly, he that gives me gold, gives me all things:  I wish I found the crock the de—­the angel, I mean, brought me.”

“O father,” murmured Grace, “do not breathe the wicked wish; even if you found it without any evil angel’s help, would the gold be rightfully your own?”

“Tush, girl!” said her mother; “get the gold, feed the children, and then to think about the right.”

“Ay, Grace, first drive away the toils and troubles of this life,” added Roger, “and then one may try with a free mind to discover the comforts of religion.”

Poor Grace only looked up mournfully, and answered nothing.

CHAPTER IX.

The poacher.

A sudden knock at the door here startled the whole party, and Mary Acton, bustling up, drew the bolt to let in—­first, a lurcher, one Rover to wit, our gaunt ember-loving friend of Chapter II.; secondly, Thomas Acton, full flush, who carried the old musket on his shoulder, and seemed to have something else under his smock; and thirdly, Ben Burke, a personage of no small consequence to us, and who therefore deserves some specific introduction.

Big Ben, otherwise Black Burke, according to the friendship or the enmity of those who named him, was a huge, rough, loud, good-humoured, dare-devil sort of an individual, who lived upon what he considered common rights.  His dress was of the mongrel character, a well-imagined cross between a ploughman’s and a sailor’s; the bottle-green frock of the former, pattern-stitched about the neck as ingeniously as if a tribe of Wisconsin squaws had tailored it—­and mighty fishing boots, vast as any French postillion’s, acting as a triton’s tail to symbolize the latter:  a red cotton handkerchief (dirty-red of course, as all things else were dirty, for cleanliness had little part in Ben), occupied just now the more native region of a halter; and a rusty fur cap crowned the poacher; I repeat it—­crowned the poacher; for in his own estimation, and that of many others too, Ben was, if not quite an emperor, at least an Agamemnon, a king of men, a natural human monarch; in truth, he felt as much pride in the title Burke the Poacher (and with as great justice too, for aught I know), as Ali-Hamet-Ghee-the-Thug eastwards, or William-of-Normandy-the-Conqueror westwards, may be thought respectively to have cherished, on the score of their murderous and thievish surnames.

There was no small good, after all, in poor Ben; and a mountain of allowance must be flung into the scales to counterbalance his deficiencies.  However coarse, and even profane, in his talk (I hope the gentle reader will excuse me alike for eliding a few elegant extracts from his common conversation, and also for reminding him characteristically, now and then, that Ben’s language is not entirely Addisonian), however rough of tongue and dissonant in voice, Ben’s heart