mind as to the nature of the apparition--he had not the happiness of
doubting for a moment that the staff was Jacob's pitchfork--but to gather
the self-command necessary for addressing his brother with a sufficiently
honeyed accent. Jacob was absorbed in scratching up the earth, and had
not heard David's approach.

"I say, Jacob," said David in a loud whisper, just as the tin box was
lifted out of the hole.

Jacob looked up, and discerning his sweet-flavoured brother, nodded and
grinned in the dim light in a way that made him seem to David like a
triumphant demon. If he had been of an impetuous disposition, he would
have snatched the pitchfork from the ground and impaled this fraternal
demon. But David was by no means impetuous; he was a young man greatly
given to calculate consequences, a habit which has been held to be the
foundation of virtue. But somehow it had not precisely that effect in
David: he calculated whether an action would harm himself, or whether it
would only harm other people. In the former case he was very timid about
satisfying his immediate desires, but in the latter he would risk the
result with much courage.

"Give it me, Jacob," he said, stooping down and patting his brother. "Let
us see."

Jacob, finding the lid rather tight, gave the box to his brother in
perfect faith. David raised the lids and shook his head, while Jacob put
his finger in and took out a guinea to taste whether the metamorphosis
into lozenges was complete and satisfactory.

"No, Jacob; too soon, too soon," said David, when the guinea had been