“Uncle, see what riches do!  You fear everybody—­you think there is no secure place—­you have more?  Do you carry about all your money?”

“No,” he chuckled at her astonishment.  “I’ve...Yes.  I’ve got more of my own.”  Her widened eyes intoxicated him.  “More.  I’ve saved.  I’ve put by.  Say, I’m an old sinner.  What’d th’ old farmer say now?  Do you love your uncle Tony?  ‘Old Ant,’ they call me down at—­” “The Bank,” he was on the point of uttering; but the vision of the Bank lay terrific in his recollection, and, summoned at last, would not be wiped away.  The unbearable picture swam blinking through accumulating clouds; remote and minute as the chief scene of our infancy, but commanding him with the present touch of a mighty arm thrown out.  “I’m honest,” he cried.  “I always have been honest.  I’m known to be honest.  I want no man’s money.  I’ve got money of my own.  I hate sin.  I hate sinners.  I’m an honest man.  Ask them, down at—­Rhoda, my dear!  I say, don’t you hear me?  Rhoda, you think I’ve a turn for misering.  It’s a beastly mistake:  poor savings, and such a trouble to keep honest when you’re poor; and I’ve done it for years, spite o’ temptation ’t ‘d send lots o’ men to the hulks.  Safe into my hand, safe out o’ my hands!  Slip once, and there ain’t mercy in men.  And you say, ’I had a whirl of my head, and went round, and didn’t know where I was for a minute, and forgot the place I’d to go to, and come away to think in a quiet part.’...”  He stopped abruptly in his ravings.  “You give me the money, Rhoda!”

She handed him the money-bags.

He seized them, and dashed them to the ground with the force of madness.  Kneeling, he drew out his penknife, and slit the sides of the bags, and held them aloft, and let the gold pour out in torrents, insufferable to the sight; and uttering laughter that clamoured fierily in her ears for long minutes afterwards, the old man brandished the empty bags, and sprang out of the room.

She sat dismayed in the centre of a heap of gold.

CHAPTER XLI

On the Monday evening, Master Gammon was at the station with the cart.  Robert and Rhoda were a train later, but the old man seemed to be unaware of any delay, and mildly staring, received their apologies, and nodded.  They asked him more than once whether all was well at the Farm; to which he replied that all was quite well, and that he was never otherwise.  About half-an-hour after, on the road, a gradual dumb chuckle overcame his lower features.  He flicked the horse dubitatively, and turned his head, first to Robert, next to Rhoda; and then he chuckled aloud: 

“The last o’ they mel’ns rotted yest’day afternoon!”

“Did they?” said Robert.  “You’ll have to get fresh seed, that’s all.”

Master Gammon merely showed his spirit to be negative.

“You’ve been playing the fool with the sheep,” Robert accused him.