CHAPTER VIII.


THE OLD FARMHOUSE.

The stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an old
farmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. Whether it had
ever been painted, was a question not easily solved. At present it was
dark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect.

The owner, Paul Nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quite
alone, and himself providing for his simple wants. Robert was right in
calling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. The time
was when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessed
with two young children. But they were all taken from him in one week by
an epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. This
bereavement completely revolutionized his life. Up to this time he had
been a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs.
Now be became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of its
legitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, which
he began to love with a passionate energy. He repulsed the advances of
neighbors, and became what Robert called him--a miser.

How much he was worth, no one knew. The town assessors sought in vain
for stocks and bonds. He did not appear to possess any. Probably popular
opinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one or
many out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont to
visit and gloat over his treasures. There was reason also to believe
that it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie payments
from those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he used