e at the venerable
joke.

Simon was a courtier, and laughed too, as immoderately as possible.

"Ah! I dare say now you have got a Chubb's patent somewhere full of
gold?" he asked somewhat anxiously; "take your punch, aunt, wont you? I
do not see you drink."

"Simon, mark me; fools who want to be robbed put their money into an
iron chest, that thieves may know exactly where to find it; they might
as well ticket it 'cash,' and advertise to Newgate--come and steal. I
know a little better than to be such a fool."

"Yes, certainly--I dare say now you keep it in your work-box, or sew it
up in your stays, or hide it in the mattress, or in an old tea-pot,
maybe." And Jennings eyed her narrowly.

"Nephew, what rhymes to money?"

"Money?--Well I can't say I am a poet--stony, perhaps. At least," added
the benevolent individual, "when I have raised a wretch's rent to gain a
little more by him, stony is not a bad shield to lift against prayers,
and tears, and orphans, and widows, and starvation, and all such
nonsense."

"Not bad, neither, Nep: but there's a better rhyme than that."

"You cannot mean honey, aunt? when I guessed stony, I thought you might
have some snug little cash cellar under the flags. But honey? are you
such a thorough Mrs. Rundle as to pickle and preserve your very guineas,
the same as you do strawberries or apricots in syrup?"

"Oh, you clever little fool! how prettily you do talk on: your tongue's
as tidy as your cash-book: when you've any money to put by, come to Aunt
Bridget for a crock to hide it in: mayn't one use a honey-pot, as Teddy
Rourke would say, barring the honey?"

"Ha! and so you hide the hoard up there, aunt, eh? along with the
preserves in a honey-pot, do you?"

"We'll see--we'll see, some o' these long days; not that the money's to
be yours, Nep--you're rich enough, and don't want it; there's your poor
sister Scott with her fourteen children, and Aunt Bridget must give her
a lift in life: she was a good niece to me, Simon, and never left my
side before she married: maybe she'll have cause to bless the dead."

Jennings hardly spoke a word more; but drained his glass in silence, got
up a sudden stomach-ache, and wished his aunt good-night.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SCHEMES.

We must follow Simon Jennings to his room. He felt keenly
disappointed. Money was the idol of his heart, as it is of many million
others. He had robbed, lied, extorted, tyrannized; he had earned scorn,
ill-