'A brave evening, mother! If we had, chinking in our pockets, but a few
specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should be
rich for life.'
'We are better as we are,' returned the widow with a quiet smile. 'Let
us be contented, and we do not want and need not care to have it, though
it lay shining at our feet.'
'Ay!' said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade, and looking
wistfully at the sunset, that's well enough, mother; but gold's a good
thing to have. I wish that I knew where to find it. Grip and I could do
much with gold, be sure of that.'
'What would you do?' she asked.
'What! A world of things. We'd dress finely--you and I, I mean; not
Grip--keep horses, dogs, wear bright colours and feathers, do no more
work, live delicately and at our ease. Oh, we'd find uses for it,
mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold was
buried. How hard I'd work to dig it up!'
'You do not know,' said his mother, rising from her seat and laying her
hand upon his shoulder, 'what men have done to win it, and how they have
found, too late, that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns
quite dim and dull when handled.
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