In due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with magnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the haringers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to arrive at sunset.  Our friend Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native valley.  He knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face.  Full of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he was to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountainside.  While the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the Great Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road.

‘Here he comes!’ cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the arrival.  ‘Here comes the great Mr. Gathergold!’

A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road.  Within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand had transmuted it.  He had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together.

‘The very image or the Great Stone Face!’ shouted the people.  ’Sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come, at last!’

And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here was the likeness which they spoke of.  By the roadside there chanced to be an old beggar woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity.  A yellow claw the very same that had dawed together so much wealth—­poked itself out of the coach-window, and dropt some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great man’s name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper.  Still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the people bellowed ’He is the very image of the Great Stone Face!’ But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage, and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves into his soul.  Their aspect cheered him.  What did the benign lips seem to say?

‘He will come!  Fear not, Ernest; the man will come!’