“I’ve a plan,” said Tommy, hesitatingly. “I’d like to go and ask Moll Pitcher if she’ll tell me where the money-pot is hidden. And then if she tells me we can go and dig it up, and you can have half of the gold and I will have half. That will be fair. Everybody knows it’s up there somewheres, but no one knows where. She only asks three shillings to look into her tea-cup. And then—and then—perhaps we might ride in a chariot and have a big house.” There had been a legend for nearly a hundred years in Lynn that certain pirates landed on the coast, and buried treasures at High Rock or Dungeon Rock, two well-known places near the village. Three of these men were captured and taken to England, but a third one, Thomas Veale, continued to live there for many years, but, it is supposed, was buried in the rocks by the earthquake of 1658. [Illustration: THE HORTICULTURAL BUILDING.] This legend, as is usual with legends, grew with years, and it is still repeated in Lynn. It filled the popular fancy more than one hundred years ago, and was especially vivid in Lord Timothy Dexter’s day. Visions of riches began to expand in the boy’s mind, and his mental mood perceptibly affected the honest soul of Blingo. “Think what we might do if we were only rich!” said the boy, with eager eyes. “I don’t know. I’m afraid we shouldn’t feel just honest as we do now, if we had money that we had not earned ourselves, and that didn’t belong to us,” said Blingo. “It’s a great thing to feel that one’s honest.” “But the money-pot don’t belong to anybody. It’s as much yours and mine as any one’s. It belongs to the man that finds it.” “Yes, yes; p’r’aps so; p’r’aps not; and p’r’aps I’d lose my own respect if I was to let you go to a fortune-teller to find it. Stands to reason that the Lord don’t reveal His secrets through Moll Pitcher’s tea-cups; and if He don’t _who_ does? That’s what I’d like to know—who does? It’s the Evil One himself.” The boy sat silent. The sounds around the farm-houses were echoed here and there,—the dog’s bark and the chore-boy’s whistle. Now and then a light gust of wind, like the passing of a messenger unseen, shook down the yellow leaves, and left a rustling in the withered trees. Afar, a bell was ringing in a steeple of Lynn, and nearer there was a rumble of cart-wheels laboring under a weight of corn. “There is a great deal of comfort,” said Blingo, after this pause, as if talking to himself, “there is a great deal of comfort to be taken with money if it can be got honestly.” “But _I’ll_ go to the fortune-teller.” “That wouldn’t help me inwardly. I’m afeard it wouldn’t be right for me to allow you to do what I wouldn’t like to do myself, and I never heard of any good that ever come from consulting tea-grounds. Still—” and there was another pause—“Still, money would be handy with a wife and seven children, and gray hairs comin’. Yes, it would.”