Having reached this ingenious conclusion, uncle Wellington applied the hatchet vigorously, soon loosened the fastenings of the chest, and with trembling hands extracted from its depths a capacious blue cotton stocking.  He emptied the stocking on the table.  His first impulse was to take the whole, but again there arose in his mind a doubt—­a very obtrusive, unreasonable doubt, but a doubt, nevertheless—­of the absolute rectitude of his conduct; and after a moment’s hesitation he hurriedly counted the money—­it was in bills of small denominations—­and found it to be about two hundred and fifty dollars.  He then divided it into two piles of one hundred and twenty-five dollars each.  He put one pile into his pocket, returned the remainder to the stocking, and replaced it where he had found it.  He then closed the chest and shoved it under the bed.  After having arranged the fire so that it could safely be left burning, he took a last look around the room, and went out into the moonlight, locking the door behind him, and hanging the key on a nail in the wall, where his wife would be likely to look for it.  He then secured his valise from behind the bushes, and left the yard.  As he passed by the wood-pile, he said to himself:——­

“Well, I declar’ ef I ain’t done fergot ter tote in dat lighterd; I reckon de ole ’oman ‘ll ha’ ter fetch it in herse’f dis time.”

He hastened through the quiet streets, avoiding the few people who were abroad at that hour, and soon reached the railroad station, from which a North-bound train left at nine o’clock.  He went around to the dark side of the train, and climbed into a second-class car, where he shrank into the darkest corner and turned his face away from the dim light of the single dirty lamp.  There were no passengers in the car except one or two sleepy negroes, who had got on at some other station, and a white man who had gone into the car to smoke, accompanied by a gigantic bloodhound.

Finally the train crept out of the station.  From the window uncle Wellington looked out upon the familiar cabins and turpentine stills, the new barrel factory, the brickyard where he had once worked for some time; and as the train rattled through the outskirts of the town, he saw gleaming in the moonlight the white headstones of the colored cemetery where his only daughter had been buried several years before.

Presently the conductor came around.  Uncle Wellington had not bought a ticket, and the conductor collected a cash fare.  He was not acquainted with uncle Wellington, but had just had a drink at the saloon near the depot, and felt at peace with all mankind.

“Where are you going, uncle?” he inquired carelessly.