recess on one side of the chimney,
where a square vault with an iron door had been built into the wall.
Leaning on his cane, he took from his pocket a bunch of keys, fitted
one into the lock, and pushing the bolt, the door slid back into a
groove, instead of opening on hinges. He lifted a black tin box from
the depths of the vault, carried it to the table, sat down, and opened
it. Near the top, were numerous papers tied into packages with red
tape, and two large envelopes carefully sealed with dark-green wax. In
removing the bundles, to find something beneath them, these envelopes
were laid on the table; and as one was either accidentally or
intentionally turned, Beryl saw the endorsement written in bold black
letters, and heavily underscored in red ink: "Last Will and Testament
of Robert Luke Darrington." Untying a small chamois bag, the owner
counted out five twenty-dollar gold pieces, closed the bag, and
replaced it in the box.

"Hold out your hand. Your mother asked fur one hundred dollars. Here is
the exact amount. Henceforth, leave me in peace. I am an old man, and I
advise you to 'let sleeping dogs lie.'"

If he had laid a red-hot iron on her palm, it would scarcely have been
more scorching than the touch of his gold, and only the vision of a wan
and woeful face in that far off cheerless attic room, restrained her
impulse to throw it at his feet.

An almost intolerable humiliation dyed her pale cheeks a deep purplish
crimson, and she proudly drew herself to her utmost height.

"Because I cannot now help myself, I accept the money--not as a gift,
but as a loan for my mother's benefit; and so help me God! I will not
owe it to you one moment longer than by hard labor I can earn and
return it. Goodbye, Gen'l Darrington."

She turned toward the closed door leading to the library, but raising
his cane, he held it out, to intercept her.

"Wait a moment. There is one thing more."

He took from the tin box an oblong package, wrapped in letter paper,
yellowed by age, and carefully sealed with red wax. As he held it up,
she read thereon: "My last folly." He tore off the paper, lifted an old
fashioned morocco case, and attempted to open it, but the catch was
obstinate, or rusty, and several ineffectual efforts were made, ere he
succeeded in moving the spring. The once white velvet cushion, had
darkened and turned very yellow, but time had robbed in no degree, the
lustre of the magnificent sapphires coiled there; and