Fisher had, indeed, been dead many hours. He had been ailing, as aged persons often are, in the fall of the year; but May had not suspected any danger, nor would there have been, in all probability, under ordinary circumstances. Jane, the snuff-taking old hag, whom May so detested, with low cunning kept the event secret from the household, excepting a crony who acted as nurse, and was glad enough to assist in plunder. Jenny, the dairy-maid, was despatched to visit her friends at Millbourne, and a kitchen-maid had a similar permission. They were easily prevented from entering the great parlour by Jane's report that "Measter be in a passion, and nobody best go a-nigh un!" This was readily believed, as they knew his illness had made him exceptionally snappish. Something very much like this has been practised at the death of greater men than Andrew Fisher--monarchs, if history tell truth, have been robbed before the breath had hardly left their nostrils. So the two old crones ransacked the house undisturbed. They took the heavy seal-ring from his finger--it was of solid gold, weighing three times as much as modern work. From his fob--for to the last he wore breeches and gaiters--they removed his chain and watch, which last, being of ancient make, would have been worth a considerable sum. "Thur be a chest under uz bed," said Jane; "a' be vull of parchmint stuff--I'll warn thur be zum guineas in un. This be the key on him." The chest was of black oak, rudely carved, and strongly protected by bands of iron. It was completely filled with yellow deeds, leases, etc, going back as far as Elizabeth, but mainly of the eighteenth century. These they scattered over the floor, and, as Jane had anticipated, at the bottom, in one corner, was a large bag of guineas. Then they added the great silver ladle, four heavy silver candlesticks, and a number of teaspoons to their guilty bundle, and chopped the gold handle off a cane with the billhook. With this tool they hacked open an inlaid cabinet, of which they could not find the key; but there was nothing within, except old letters faded from age, and a miniature on enamel--a portrait of May's grandmother. "Ay, poor theng," said Jane, "thuck ould varmint ground the life out of her. A'wuver the picter be zet in gould; we med as well have un." "A' wish us could take zum on these yer veather beds," said the other. "Couldn't you and I car um zumhow?"