“Weel, there’s the fewer to pairt it among, if onything comes o’ this,” said the miser. “Ye maun just stand back awee, my man. I dinna open a’ my posies afore fremd folk; and ye’re no to think the Allenders left as muckle behind them, claithes and a’ thegither, as would fill the half o’ that kist. What there is, I’ll bring ye, but I’ll hae nae stranger meddling wi’ my gear.” Cuthbert withdrew as he was ordered, to the door of the “best room.” The chest was a large one, painted a dull brown colour, and judging from its broken lock, contained nothing of any value. The old woman raised the lid, and dived into a wilderness of lumber, faded worn out cobweb-like garments, long ago unfit for use, but preserved nevertheless on the penurious principle of throwing nothing away. After long fishing among these relics of ancient finery, Miss Jean at last produced from the very bottom of the abyss, a small quarto Bible in a dark decayed binding, much worn at the corners. “Here!” she said, abruptly, handing it to Cuthbert, “ye can look at that, and I’ll see if there’s ony mair--there should be some papers in the shottle.” Cuthbert hastily returned to the window to examine the book; on the fly leaf was written simply the name of John Allenders, a remote date, and a text. It gave no further clue to its owner’s identity. “Have ye gotten onything, Mr. Charteris?” asked anxiously the old man at his side. Cuthbert could only shake his head as he turned over the dark old pages and looked for farther information in vain. The Bible contained, as all Bibles do in Scotland, the metrical version of psalms sanctioned by the Kirk, and between the end of the New Testament and the beginning of these, it is customary to have the family register of births and deaths. Cuthbert turned hastily to this place; at first he concluded there was no entry, but on further examination, he found that two leaves had been pasted together, and that on the outer side of one something was written. He looked at it, “Behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke,” was the melancholy inscription; and the handwriting was stiff and painful and elaborate, most like the hand of bitter grief. There were mistakes too and slips of the mournful pen. Cuthbert felt it move him greatly--so strange it seemed to see the mark of the faltering hasty fingers, which so long ago were at rest for ever. One of the leaves had been a good deal torn in a vain endeavour to open this sealed record. Cuthbert feeling himself growing excited and anxious, with the wished for evidence so very near him, made other attempts which were as unsuccessful. The dead man had shut up the chronicle of his happier days that he might not see it in his desolation, and the jealous grief seemed to linger about it as its guardian still.