Bridget had been cutting up an old glove, and had made one of its
fingers into a very tidy little leather sacklet; into this she deposited
a bright half sovereign, spoil of the day, being the douceur of a needy
brush-maker, who wished to keep custom, and, of course, charged all
these vails on the current bill for mops and stable-sponges.

"Ha!" muttered she, "it's your last bill here, Mr. Scrubb, I can tell
you; so, you were going to put me off with a crown-piece, were you? and
actually that bit of gold might as well have been a drop of blood wrung
from you: yes--yes, Mr. Scrubb, I could see that plainly; and so you've
done for yourself."

Then, having sewed up the clever little bag, she dropped it into the
crock: there was no jingle, all dumby: prudent that, in his aunt--for
the dear morsels of gold were worth such tender keeping, and leather
would hinder them from wear and tear, set aside the clink being
silenced. So, the nephew secretly thanked Bridget for the wrinkle, and
thought how pleasant it would be to stuff old gloves with his own yellow
store. Ah, yes, he would do that--to-morrow morning.

Meanwhile, the pig-skin is put on again, and the honey-pot stored away:
and Simon instinctively stood a tip-toe to peep ideally into that
wealthy corner cupboard. His mind's eye seemed to see more honey-pots!
Mammon help us! can they all be full of gold? why, any one of them would
hold a thousand pounds. And Simon scratched the palms of his hands, and
licked his lips at the thought of so much honey.

But see, Mrs. Quarles has, in her peculiar fashion, undressed herself:
that is to say, she has taken off her outer gown, her cap and wig--and
then has _added_ to the volume of her under garments, divers night