It was generally agreed in the family that Uncle Isaac was very “close” as to this small property of his. Nothing could induce him to speak of it with any particularity of detail, and opinions varied as to its character. Still, whatever it was, it sufficed to gain Uncle Isaac much deference and consideration—the more, probably, because of its mysterious character; a deference and a consideration which Uncle Isaac could stimulate from time to time by cloudy allusions to altering his will. “Well,” observed Mr. Butson rising from his chair, “education never done me much good.” “No, unforchnately!” commented Uncle Isaac. “An’ I’d prefer property meself.” Mr. Butson made toward the door, and Uncle Isaac prepared to follow. At this moment a harsh female voice suddenly screamed from the darkness without. “Lor’! I almost fell over a blessed ’ouse!” it said, and there was a shrill laugh. “We’ll ask ’em the way back.” Old May stepped over the threshold at the sound; but the magnificence was stricken from the face of Mr. Butson. His cheeks paled, his mouth and eyes opened together, and he shrank back, even toward the stairfoot. Nobody marked him, however, but the children, for attention was directed without. “Djear! which way to the Dun Cow?” “See the lane?” answered the old postman. “Follow that to the right an’ you’ll come to it. It’s a bit farther than through the wood, but ye can’t go wrong.” “Right!” There were two women and a man. The screaming woman said something to the others in a quieter tone, in which, however, the word “tiddlers” was plain to hear, and there was a laugh. “Good-night, ole chap,” she bawled back. “Put ’em in a jam-pot with a bit o’ water-creese!” “Full o’ their games!” remarked the old man with a tolerant smile, as he turned toward the door. “That was the person as said I’d catch it for gettin’ my clothes wet, as we came past the Dun Cow.” The voices of the beanfeasters abated and ceased, and now Mr. Butson left no doubt of his readiness to depart. “Come,” he said, with chap-fallen briskness, “we’ll ’ave to git back to the others; they’ll be goin’.” He took leave with so much less dignity and so much more haste than accorded with his earlier manner that Mr. May was a trifle puzzled, though he soon forgot it. “Good-night, Mr. May, I wish you good-night,” said Uncle Isaac, shaking hands impressively. “I’ve greatly enjoyed your flow of conversation, Mr. May.” He made after the impatient Butson, stopped half-way to the gate and called gently:—“Nan!” “Yes, uncle,” Mrs. May replied, stepping out to him. “What is it?” Uncle Isaac whispered gravely in her ear, and she returned and whispered to the old man. “Of course—certainly,” he said, looking mightily concerned, as he re-entered the cottage. Mrs. May reached a cracked cup from a shelf, and, turning over a few coppers, elicited a half-crown. With this she returned to Uncle Isaac.