es pockets, and set aloft on that same high-reached shelf.
Must he really take them all? impracticable: a positive sack full.
What's to be done?--which is he to leave behind? that old witch
contrived this identity and multitude for safety's sake. But what if he
left the wrong one, and got clear off with the valuable booty of two
dozen pounds of honey? Confusion! that'll never do: he must take them
all, or none; all, all's the word; and forthwith, as tenderly as
possible, the puzzled thief took down eleven pots of honey to his one of
gold--all pig-bladdered, all Fortnumed--all slimy at the string;
"Confound that cunning old aunt of mine," said Simon, aloud; and took no
notice that the snores surceased.

Then did he spread upon the table a certain shawl, and set the crocks in
order on it: and it was quite impossible to leave behind that pretty
ostentatious "Savings' Bank," which the shrewd hoarder kept as a feint
to lure thieves from her hidden gold, by an open exhibition of her
silver: unluckily, though, the shillings, not being leathered up nor
branned, rattled like a Mandarin toy, as the trembling hand of Jennings
deposited the bank beside the crockeries--and, at the well-known sound,
I observed (though Simon did not, as he was in a trance of addled
triumph) or fancied I observed Mrs. Quarles's head move: but as she said
nothing, perhaps I was mistaken. Thus stood Simon at the table,
surveying his extraordinary spoils.

And while he looked, the Mercy of God, which never yet hath seen the
soul too guilty for salvation, spake to him kindly, and whispered in his
ear, "Poor, deluded man--there is yet a moment for escape--flee from
this temptation--put all back again--hasten to thy room, to thy prayers,
repent, repent: even thou shalt be forgiven, and none but God, who will
forgive thee, shall know of this bad crime. Turn now from all thy sins;
the gate of bliss is open, if thou wilt but lift the latch."

It was one moment of irresolute delay; on that hinge hung Eternity. The
gate swung upon its pivot, that should shut out hell, or heaven!

Simon knit his brow--bit his nails--and answered quite out loud, "What!
and after all to lose the crock of gold?"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MURDER.

HE had waked her!

In an instant the angel form of Mercy melted away--and there stood the
devil with his arms folded.

"Murder!--fire!--rape!--thieves!--what, Nephew Jennings, is that you,
with all my honey pots? Help! help! help!