profits of his two nights' work; after which he was as poor as ever.
He continued to work a little, and pray a good deal, and keep saints' days and holidays, from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt and ragged as a crew of gypsies. As he was seated one evening at the door of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon, who was noted for owning many houses, and being a griping landlord. The man of money eyed him for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious shagged eyebrows.
"I am told, my friend, that you are very poor."
"There is no denying the fact, Señor—it speaks for itself."
"I presume, then, that you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap."
"As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada."
"That's what I want. I have an old house fallen into decay, that costs me more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will live in it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it together at as small expense as possible."
The mason was accordingly conducted to a large deserted house that seemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty halls and chambers, he entered an inner court, where his eye was caught by an old Moorish fountain. He paused for a moment, for a dreaming recollection of the place came over him.
"Pray," said he, "who occupied this house formerly?"
"A pest upon him," cried the landlord, "it was an old miserly priest, who cared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rich, and having no relations, it was supposed would leave all his treasures to the Church. He died suddenly, and the priests and friars thronged to take possession of his wealth; but nothing could they find but a few ducats in a leathern purse. The worst luck
