But now that you've got a packet to take to old David's friends somewheres, you may take my word for 't, Mis' Deane, you'll find out as 'e was wot ye didn't expect.

Onny last night, as I was a-sittin' afore the kitchen fire, for though bein' summer I'm that chilly that I feels the least change in the temper o' the sea,--as I was a-sittin', I say, out jumps a cinder as long as a pine cone, red an' glowin' like a candle at the end.

An' I stares at the thing, an' I sez: 'That's either a purse o' money, or a journey with a coffin at the end'-- an' the thing burns an' shines like a reg'lar spark of old Nick's cookin' stove, an' though I pokes an' pokes it, it won't go out, but lies on the 'erth, frizzlin' all the time.

An' I do 'ope, Mis' Deane, as now yer goin' off to 'and over old David's effecks to the party interested, ye'll come back safe, for the poor old dear 'adn't a penny to bless 'isself with, so the cinder must mean the journey, an' bein' warned, ye'll guard agin the coffin at the end." Mary smiled rather sadly.
"I'll take care!" she said.

"But I don't think anything very serious is likely to happen.