came to him. He invited the cobbler to his house, where he asked him some questions.
"Tell me, Master Gregory, what do you suppose your earnings amount to in a year?"
"In a year," laughed the cobbler, "that's more than I know. I never keep accounts that way, nor even keep one day from another. So long as I can make both ends meet, that's good enough for me!"
"Really!" replied the financier. "But what can you earn in one day?"
"Oh, sometimes more and sometimes less. The mischief of it is that there are so many fête days and high-days and fast-days crowded into the year, on which, as the priest tells us, it is wicked to work at all; and worse still he keeps on finding some new saint or other to give weight to his sermons. If it were not for that, cobbling would be a fine paying game."
At this the wealthy man laughed. "Look here, my friend, to-day I'll lift you to the seats of the mighty! Here is a hundred pounds. Guard them and use them with care."
When the cobbler held the bag of money in his hand he imagined that it must be as much as would be coined in a hundred years.
Returning home he buried the cash in his cellar. Alas! he buried his joy with it, for there were no more songs. From the moment he came into possession of this wealth, the love of which is the root of all evil, his voice left him, and not only his voice, but his sleep also. And in place of these came anxiety, suspicion, and alarms; guests which abode with him constantly. All day he kept his eye on the cellar door. Did a cat
