“Why, it aren’t,” he cried holding out the cinder; “it’s a puss o’ money.”
“No, no,” sighed Martha, “that isn’t the one.”
“That it is,” cried Bruff, sturdily. “I’m sure on it. Look ’Liza.”
The apron was slowly drawn away from the girl’s white face and she fixed her eyes on the hollow cinder, but full of doubt.
“It is. Hark!” cried Bruff, and he shook the cinder close to Eliza’s ear. “Can’t you hear?”
“It does tinkle,” she said. “But are you sure that’s the one?”
“Of course I am, and it’s a sign as he’ll get well again, and be rich and happy.”
“No, no; that isn’t the one, that isn’t the one,” sobbed Martha.
“Tell you it is,” cried Bruff so fiercely that the cook doubtingly took the piece of cinder, shook it, and by degrees a smile spread over her countenance and she rose and put the scrap on the chimney-piece between two bright brass candlesticks.
“For luck,” she said; and this time she wiped her eyes dry and examined a saucepan of beef tea which she had stewed down. “In case it’s wanted,” she said confidentially, though there was not the slightest likelihood thereof for some time to come.