"We must carefully search over all these bits of paper," observed Garway, "and fit in the fragments, if we can, like pieces of a dissected map. But this tedious work will take hours, if not days, and we have already been here for a considerable time. We will take away this heap of little scraps, and pursue the occupation at our leisure." "I beg your pardon, genl'men, but not one bit of paper shall go out of this cottage!" cried Mytton, to whom it seemed as if the fortunes of himself and his family had all been sewn up in that pillow. "Search here till doomsday, if you like it, but I'll not have a scrap of that there heap taken out of my sight." Expostulation was in vain; the hewer of wood, feverish with ambitious hopes, would not trust his treasure to the care of the lawyers. The hunt for yellowish scraps, which were carefully collected and put together, went on till darkness closed in, and then the lawyers re-entered their conveyance, and drove off to take their dinner at the nearest inn, promising to return in an hour. During the time of their absence, Mytton, never so much as raising his eyes from his occupation, went on as if life depended on success, setting one little scrap by another, and muttering savage words, which made Amy's blood run cold, about the folly which had torn into fragments that which might be of such priceless value. It was well for the children that Mytton was too busy with his heap of small scraps, to vent his anger in anything but words. It was nearly two hours before the lawyers returned, and there they found Mytton, just where they had left him, bending over the table, and anxiously examining the stuffing of Mary's pillow by the dull light of a tallow dip. The children had all gone to bed, for Amy's cough had irritated her father, whose nerves were painfully on the strain. And May, after many a long, weary yawn, having fallen asleep on the floor, had been roughly wakened, and sent upstairs. The lawyers brought clearer light and sharper intelligence to the work before them, which was pursued till far into the night. With the help of a little paste, all the scraps which could be made to fit into each other were arranged into something like order. At last, nearly half of the flyleaf of the family Bible, with its record in different handwritings of births, marriages, and deaths, stretching over more than a hundred and fifty years, was patched together—the rest of the leaf had been irrecoverably lost. The lawyers left the cottage weary and sleepy; Mytton went to his pallet bed, weary, indeed, but so restless that he could not close an eye till the dawn. It seemed almost as if the labouring man were never again to enjoy a night of sound rest.