Here the gentleman that lost the bills said, “This poor child is enough to make a man weep for the miseries of human nature, and be thankful for himself; he puts tears into my eyes.” “And into mine too,” says the other. “Well, but hark ye, Jacque,” says the first gentleman, “do they give you no money when they send you of errands?” “They give me victuals,” said I, “and that’s better.” “But what,” says he, “do you do for clothes?” “They give me sometimes old things,” said I, “such as they have to spare.” “Why, you have never a shirt on, I believe,” said he, “have you?” “No; I never had a shirt,” said I, “since my nurse died.” “How long ago is that?” said he. “Six winters, when this is out,” said I. “Why, how old are you?” said he. “I can’t tell,” said I. “Well,” says the gentleman, “now you have this money, won’t you buy some clothes and a shirt with some of it?” “Yes,” said I, “I would buy some clothes.” “And what will you do with the rest?” “I can’t tell,” said I, and cried. “What dost cry for, Jacque?” said he. “I am afraid,” said I, and cried still. “What art afraid of?” “They will know I have money.” “Well, and what then?” “Then I must sleep no more in the warm glass house, and I shall be starved with cold. They will take away my money.” “But why must you sleep there no more?” Here the gentlemen observed to one another how naturally anxiety and perplexity attend those that have money. “I warrant you,” says the clerk, “when this poor boy had no money he slept all night in the straw, or on the warm ashes in the glass-house, as soundly and as void of care as it would be possible for any creature to do; but now, as soon as he has gotten money, the care of preserving it brings tears into his eyes and fear into his heart.” They asked me a great many questions more, to which I answered in my childish way as well as I could, but so as pleased them well enough. At last I was going away with a heavy pocket, and I assure you not a light heart, for I was so frighted with having so much money that I knew not what in the earth to do with myself. I went away, however, and walked a little way, but I could not tell what to do; so, after rambling two hours or thereabout, I went back again, and sat down at the gentleman’s door, and there I cried as long as I had any moisture in my head to make tears of, but never knocked at the door. I had not sat long, I suppose, but somebody belonging to the family got knowledge of it, and a maid came and talked to me, but I said little to her, only cried still. At length it came to the gentleman’s ears. As for the merchant, he was gone. When the gentleman heard of me he called me in, and began to talk with me again, and asked me what I stayed for. I told him I had not stayed there all that while, for I had been gone a great while, and was come again. “Well,” says he, “but what did you come again for?” “I can’t tell,” says I.