“Yes! and I wish we were there now.”

“And all your talk used to be gold—­gold—­gold.”

“As well say it as think it.”

“That is true.  Well, we shall be very busy all day to-morrow, but in the afternoon dig for gold an hour or two—­then you will be satisfied.”

“But it is no use digging here; it was full five-and-twenty miles from here the likely-looking place.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me at the place?”

“Why?” replied Robinson, sourly, “because his reverence did so snub me whenever I got upon that favorite topic, that I really had got out of the habit.  I was ashamed to say, ’George, let us stop on the road and try for gold with our finger-nails.’  I knew I should only get laughed at.”

“Well,” said George sarcastically, “since the gold mine is twenty-five miles off, and our work is round about the door, suppose we pen sheep to-morrow—­and dig for gold when there is nothing better to be done.”

Robinson sighed.  Unbucolical to the last degree was the spirit in which our Bohemian tended the flocks next morning.

His thoughts were deeper than the soil.  And every evening up came the old topic.  Oh! how sick George got of it.  At last one night he said:  “My lad, I should like to tell you a story—­but I suppose I shall make a bungle of it; shan’t cut the furrow clean I am doubtful.”

“Never mind; try!”

“Well, then.  Once upon a time there was an old chap that had heard or read about treasures being found in odd places, a pot full of guineas or something; and it took root in his heart till nothing would serve him but he must find a pot of guineas, too; he used to poke about all the old ruins. grubbing away, and would have taken up the floor of the church, but the churchwardens would not have it.  One morning he comes down and says to his wife, ’It is all right, old woman, I’ve found the treasure.’

“‘No! have you, though?’ says she.

“‘Yes!’ says he; ’leastways, it is as good as found; it is only waiting till I’ve had my breakfast, and then I’ll go out and fetch it in.’

“‘La, John, but how did you find it?’

“‘It was revealed to me in a dream,’ says he, as grave as a judge.

“‘And where is it?’ asks the old woman.

“‘Under a tree in our own orchard—­no farther,’ says he.

“‘Oh, John! how long you are at breakfast to-day!’ Up they both got and into the orchard.  ‘Now, which tree is it under?’

“John, he scratches his head, ‘Blest if I know.’

“‘Why, you old ninny,’ says the mistress, ’didn’t you take the trouble to notice?’

“‘That I did,’ said he; ’I saw plain enough which tree it was in my dream, but now they muddle it all, there are so many of ’em.’

“‘Drat your stupid old head,’ says she, ’why didn’t you put a nick on the right one at the time?’”