narthney--there's more on
loan to Griffiths, Pontardewe,--Jones, Glantewey,--Pugh the draper,
Llansant--and others. And there's a box beside. Mind you, I 'ont die
yet, but I tell you, because I can trust you; and Howel don't know
nothing.'

'May I write it down for you, Uncle Griff; or would you have a lawyer?'

'No, no. I've had enough of law in paying for Howel, and nothing come of
it. But you may be writing down a little. Here, in that chest, there's
pen, ink and paper; tak' you my keys, and open you it.'

Griffith Jenkins took from under his pillow a bunch of keys, and
fumbling amongst them, gave one to Rowland, with which he opened the
chest, and procured the necessary writing apparatus.

'Give you me my keys--quick, quick!' cried the old man, again hiding
them somewhere in his bed.'

At his dictation, Rowland wrote a list of the different moneys he
possessed in various places, and was utterly astonished to find that he
had soon written down between sixty and seventy thousand pounds.
Everybody knew that Griffith Jenkins was rich, but nobody had guessed
how rich he was.

'Now say, "I give and bequeath to my wife, 'Lizbeth Jenkins, ten
thousand pound out of the aforesaid mortgage on Jacob Davies Llansadwn's
property."'

'Is that all, Uncle Griff?'

'Yes, I sha'n't say no more.'

'And the box of gold?'

Again the miser grasped Rowland's hand, and fixed his keen eyes on his
face.

'I 'ont be dying yet, and I 'ont be putting that down to-night. Tell you
your father what there is, without the box, and without more mortgages
and loans; but don't you be talking to anybody about it. Mind you, not
to Howel nor to 'Lizbeth: promise me.'

Rowland promised.

The miser fell back exhausted.

'And now Uncle Griff, may I pray for you? Only think how soon you may be
called to your account, to say exactly how you have employed your time,
and the talents given--'

'I have done plenty--plenty--all out at interest, at five, six, even ten
per cent.; none wrapped up in a napkin. I don't be calling a box a
napkin, Rowland Prothero.'

'May I call in Mrs Jenkins and Howel, and pray for you? Think; oh think,
of the great Judge, and great Mediator. O God, have mercy upon us,
miserable sinners!'

As Rowland said this, he clasped his hands, and looked upwards, in
unutterable supplication. The old man was alarmed.

'I don't be going to die, but you may call 'em in.'

Rowland rose and obeyed. Mrs Jenkins appeared with a