"Then, perhaps, Heaven will forgive me, too. I'll do all I can. I'll leave you all my money."
Tom did not pay much regard to this promise, for he did not know that Jacob had any money beyond a few shillings, or possibly a few dollars.
"Thank you, Jacob," he said, "but I can earn enough to pay my expenses very well. Don't trouble yourself about me."
"There's no one else to leave it to," said the old man. "It isn't much, but you shall have it."
Here he drew out, with trembling fingers, the key suspended to a piece of twine which, through all his sickness, he had carried around his neck. He held it in his hand a moment, and a spasm convulsed his pale features. To give it up seemed like parting with life itself. It was a final parting with his treasure, to which, small though it was, his heart clung even in this solemn moment. He held it, reluctant to give it up, though he knew now that he must.
"Take this key, Tom," he said. "It is the key to my box of gold."
"I didn't know you had a box of gold," said Tom, rather surprised.
"It is not much—a hundred dollars. If I had lived longer, I might have got more."
"A hundred dollars, Jacob? I did not think you were so rich."
"It will never do me any good," said the old man, bitterly. "I was a fool to go out in the street that day. I might have lived to be as old as my father. He was seventy-five when he died."