As I was going adown the dale Sing derry down dale, and derry down dale, As I was going adown the dale, Adown the dale of a Monday, With never a thought of the Devil his tricks, Why who should I meet with his bundle of sticks, But the very old man of the Nursery tale. Sing derry down dale, and derry down dale, The wicked old man of the Nursery tale Who gathered his sticks of a Sunday. Sing derry down, derry down dale. Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked over the edge of the sheet at David Blake. “My nephew Edward is most undoubtedly and indisputably a prig—a damned prig,” he added thoughtfully after a moment’s pause for reflection. As he reflected his black eyes danced from David’s face to a crayon drawing which hung on the panelled wall above the mantelpiece. “His mother’s fault,” he observed, “it’s not so bad in a woman, and she was pretty, which Edward ain’t. Pretty and a prig my sister Sarah——” There was a faint emphasis on the word sister, and David remembered having heard his mother say that both Edward and William Mottisfont had been in love with the girl whom William married. “And a plain prig my nephew Edward,” continued the old gentleman. “Damn it all, David, why can’t I leave my money to you instead?” David laughed. “Because I shouldn’t take it, sir,” he said. He was sitting, most unprofessionally, on the edge of his patient’s large four-post bed. Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked at him quizzically. “How much would you take—eh, David? Come now—say—how much?” David laughed again. His grey eyes twinkled. “Nary penny, sir,” he said, swinging his arm over the great carved post beside him. There were cherubs’ heads upon it, a fact that had always amused its owner considerably. “Nonsense,” said old Mr. Mottisfont, and for the first time his thin voice was tinged with earnestness. “Nonsense, David. Why! I’ve left you five thousand pounds.” David started. His eyes changed. They were very deep-set eyes. It was only when he laughed that they appeared grey. When he was serious they were so dark as to look black. Apparently he was moved and concerned. His voice took a boyish tone. “Oh, I say, sir—but you mustn’t—I can’t take it, you know.” “And why not, pray?” This was Mr. Mottisfont at his most sarcastic. David got the better of his momentary embarrassment. “I shan’t forget that you’ve thought of it, sir,” he said. “But I can’t benefit under a patient’s will. I haven’t got many principles, but that’s one of them. My father drummed it into me from the time I was about seven.” Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lifted the thin eyebrows that had contrived to remain coal-black, although his hair was white. They gave him a Mephistophelean appearance of which he was rather proud. “Very fine and highfalutin,” he observed. “You’re an exceedingly upright young man, David.” David roared. After a moment the old gentleman’s lips gave way at the corners, and he laughed too.