“Well,” he said, “now you’ve got it, perhaps you’ll state the particular value of that old piece of metal.” 

 “It’s a gold Doric!” cried the doctor; “as rare a——” he checked himself suddenly and went on with a ludicrous affectation of indifference—“rare enough just to make it interesting. No intrinsic value—none whatever.” 

 A little wicked smile twitched up my father’s bearded cheeks. Each man sat forward for some minutes pulling at his pipe; but it was evident the effort of social commonplace was too much for Dr. Crackenthorpe. Presently he rose and said he must be going. He was obviously on thorns until he could secure his treasure in a safe place. For a quarter of an hour after the door had closed behind him, my father sat on gloomily smoking and muttering to himself. Then suddenly he woke to consciousness of our presence and ordered us, savagely, almost madly, off to bed. 

 This explains the doctor’s question of Jason and is a necessary digression. Now to the meadows once more and a little experience that befell there after the intruder’s departure. 

 CHAPTER II. A NIXIE. 

A NIXIE.

 My brother tired of his fishing for the nonce, and for an hour we lay on our backs in the grass chatting desultorily. 

 “Jason,” said I, suddenly, “what do we live on?” 

 “What we can get,” said my brother, sleepily. 

 “But I mean—where does it come from; who provides it?” 

 “Oh, don’t bother, Renny. We have enough to eat and drink and do as we like. What more do you want?” 

 “I don’t know. I want to know, that’s all. I can’t tell why. Where does the money come from?” 

 “Tom Tiddler. He was our grandfather.” 

 “Don’t be a fool. Dad never worked the mill that we remember.” 

 “But Tom Tiddler did before him.” 

 “Not to the tune that would keep four loafers in idleness for sixteen years.” 

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