CHAPTER FOURTEEN. DIOGENES IN HIS TUB. Uncle Luke was in very good spirits. He had rid himself of his incubus, as he called the sum of money, and though he would not own it, he always felt better when he had had a little converse with his fellow-creatures. His lonely life was very miserable, and the more so that he insisted upon its being the highest form of happiness to exist in hermit fashion, as the old saints proved. The desolate hut in its rocky niche looked miserable when he climbed up back on his return from Van Heldre's, so he stopped by the granite wall and smiled. "Finest prospect in all Cornwall," he said, half aloud; "freshest air. Should like to blow up Leslie's works, though." The door was locked, but it yielded to the heavy key which secured it against visitors, though they were very rare upon that rocky shelf. He was the more surprised then, after his frugal mid-day meal, by a sharp rapping at the door, and on going he stared angrily at the two sturdy sailor-dressed pedlars, who were resting their packs on the low granite wall. "Can we sell a bit o' bacco, or a pound o' tea, master?" said the man who had won over Liza to the purchase of his coloured silk. "Bang!" That was Uncle Luke's answer as the man spoke to him, and his fellow swept the interior of the cottage with one quick glance. "Steal as soon as sell any day," grumbled Uncle Luke. "Tobacco and tea, indeed!" Outside one of the men gave his companion a wink and a laugh, as he shouldered his pack, while the other chuckled and followed his example. Meanwhile Uncle Luke had seated himself at his rough deal table, and written a long business letter to his lawyer in London. This missive he read over twice, made an addition to the paragraph dealing most particularly with the mortgage on which he had been invited to lend, and then carefully folded the square post paper he used in old-fashioned letter shape, tucking one end into the other from objects of economy, so as to dispense with envelopes, but necessitating all the same the use of sealing-wax and a light. However, it pleased him to think that he was saving, and he lit a very thin candle, took the stick of red wax from a drawer, a curious old-fashioned signet gold ring bearing the family crest, from a nail where it hung over the fireplace, and then sitting down as if to some very important piece of business, he burned his wax, laid on a liberal quantity, and then impressed the seal. This done, the ring was hung once more upon its nail, and the old man stood gazing at it and thinking. The next minute he took down the ring, and slipped it on one of his fingers, and worked it up and down, trying it on another finger, and then going back to the first. "Used to fit too tightly," he said; "now one's fingers are little more than bone."