"Oh, it's you, Sara: come in, come in! Here's a seat. Now, what can I do
for you?"

"Thank you, squire; I came to get some money if you please."

"Money? Oh, yes, certainly. Want to borrow a little, eh? Well, I guess I
could accommodate you; how much?"

She looked up inquiringly. "Not to borrow, squire; but I've had extra
expenses, as you know; and, as father always leaves his money with you"--

The squire put down his paper, and looked at her so queerly the sentence
died on her lips.

"I haven't any money of your father's--don't you know? He drew it all
just before he sailed, and took it home; said his wife wanted him to.
She had dreamed of a good place to hide it in, I believe."

He smiled sarcastically as he made the explanation; and Sara, in her new
tenderness toward the dead mother, resented this smile.

"Mother was a good manager," she said warmly, "and father always trusted
her."

"Oh, of course! Reub Olmstead always trusts everybody; he's born that
way. But didn't she tell you where she'd put it before she died?"

"No; but now I remember, she tried to, I'm sure. She began something
about the money, but was too weak to finish--poor mother!"