I wish some one would write a book about dreams and
parthenogenesis--for that the two are part and parcel of the same story--a
brood of folly without father bred--I cannot doubt.
I did not trouble George with any of this rubbish, but only shewed him
how the mistake had arisen. When we had laughed sufficiently over my
mistake--for it was I who had come up on the wrong day, not he--I fished
my knapsack out of its hiding-place.
"Do not unpack it," said I, "beyond taking out the brooches, or you will
not be able to pack it so well; but you can see the ends of the bars of
gold, and you can feel the weight; my father sent them for you. The
pearl brooch is for your mother, the smaller brooches are for your
sisters, and your wife."
I then told him how much gold there was, and from my pockets brought out
the watches and the English knife.
"This last," I said, "is the only thing that I am giving you; the rest is
all from our father. I have many many times as much gold myself, and
this is legally your property as much as mine is mine."
George was aghast, but he was powerless alike to express his feelings, or
to refuse the gold.
"Do you mean to say that my father left me this by his will?"
"Certainly he did," said I, inventing a pious fraud.
"It is all against my oath," said he, looking grave.
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