endeavours to compass its possession had been vain. Was that endless
cribbage nothing, and the weary Bible-lessons on a Sunday, and the
constant fetchings and carryings, and the forced smiles, sham
congratulations, and other hypocritical affections--fearing for his dear
aunt's dropsy, and inquiring so much about her bunions--was all this
dull servitude to meet with no reward? With none? worse than none! Fool
that he was! had he schemed, and plotted, and flattered, and
cozened--ay, and given away many pretty little presents, lost decoys,
that had cost hard money, all for nothing--less than nothing--to be
laughed at and postponed to his Methodist sister Scott? The impudence of
deliberately telling him he "didn't want it, and was rich enough!" as if
"enough" could ever be good grammar after such a monosyllable as "rich;"
and "want it" indeed! of course he wanted it; if not, why had he slaved
so many years? want it, indeed! if to hope by day, and to dream by
night--if to leave no means untried of delicately showing how he longed
for it--if to grow sick with care, and thin with coveting--if this were
to want the gold, good sooth, he wanted it. Don't tell him of starving
brats, his own very bowels pined for it; don't thrust in his face the
necessities of others--the necessity is his; he must have it--he will
have it--talk of necessity!

Wait a bit: is there no way of managing some better end to all this? no
mode of giving the right turn to that wheel of fortune, round which his
cares and calculations have been hovering so long? Is there no
conceivable method of possessing that vast hoard?

Bless me! how huge it must be! and Simon turned whiter at the thought:
only add up Mother Quarles's income for fifty-five years: she is
seventy-five at least, and came here a girl of twenty. Simon's hair
stood on end, and his heart went like a mill-clapper, as he mentally