“I shall be all the more certain to get the sovereign, or two sovereigns,” said Henry to David, the only person whom he could find to listen to him, “if Sam is gone; and everyone will be caring about me.” “And then you’ll give it to the pig,” said David. “Oh yes, to be sure. You will grow into a pig yourself if you go on that way, David.” However, David, partaking the family distrust of Hal’s birds-in-the-bush, and being started on the subject of the hoard, ran up to Sam, who was learning his lessons by way of something to do, and said, “If you go to London, Sam, may I have your sixpence on Monday for the pig?” “I don’t know that I am going.” “But if you do—or we sha’n’t get the pig.” “I don’t care.” “Don’t you care if we don’t get the pig?” “No. Be off with you.” David next betook himself to his eldest sister, who was trying to write to her father, and finding such a letter harder and sadder work than that to Ida Greville, though no one teased her about writing, blots, or spelling. “If you go to London, Susie,” said he, in the very same words, “may I have your sixpence on Monday for the pig?” “Oh, Davie, don’t be tiresome!” David only said it over again in the same words, and put his hand down on her letter in his earnestness. “Come away, Davie,” said Miss Fosbrook; “don’t tease your sister.” “I want her to say I may have her sixpence on Monday for the pig.” “No, you sha’n’t, then,” said Susan angrily; “you care for the nasty pig more than for poor Mamma or anyone else, and you sha’n’t have it.” So seldom did Susan say anything cross, that everyone looked up surprised. Miss Fosbrook saw that it was sheer unhappiness that made her speak sharply, and would not take any notice, except by gently taking away the pertinacious David. He was very much distressed at the refusal; and when Miss Fosbrook told him that his brother and sister could not think of such things when they were in such trouble, he only answered, “But Hannah Higgins won’t get her pig.” Miss Fosbrook was vexed herself that her friend David should seem possessed with this single idea, as if it shut out all others from his mind. He was consoled fast enough; for Susan, with another great sob, threw down her pen, and coming up to stroke him down with her inky fingers, cried out, “O Davie, Davie, I didn’t mean it; I don’t know why I said it. You shall have my sixpence, or anything! But, oh dear, I wish the message was come, and we were going to dear Mamma, for I can’t write, and I don’t know what to do.”