"It's all mine!" he muttered, joyfully. "Tom doesn't know about it. He mustn't know—he might want me to spend it. I will count it."
He took it out by handfuls, and began to count it for at least the hundredth time, putting together coins of similar value in little piles, till there was a circle of silver and copper about him.
It was a work of time for the old man, and probably half an hour was consumed before he had finished his task.
"Ninety-nine dollars!" he exclaimed, in alarm, at the end of the calculation. "Somebody has robbed me; I ought to have twenty-five cents more. Could Tom have got at the box? Maybe I have made a mistake. I will count again."
With nervous fingers he recommenced the count, fearing that he had met with a loss. He was half through his task, when a knock was heard at the door. The old man started in agitation, and glanced apprehensively at the door.
"Who's there?" he asked, in quivering accents.
"It's I," answered a hearty voice, which Jacob readily recognized as that of Mrs. Flanagan.
"You can't come in," said the old man, peevishly. "What do you want?"
"I only came to ask how ye are, and if I can do anything for ye."
"No, you can't. I'm well—no, I'm sick, and I'd rather be left alone."