It was unreasonable, to be sure, but sometimes Mrs. Farrell used to wonder how her neighbors could be so hard-hearted as to go past unconcernedly, and not notice the necessities which, all the while, she was doing her best to keep from their knowledge.  Often, too, as Stingy Willis went in and out of the door so close to her own, she thought:  “How hard it is that this man should have riches hidden away, while I have scarcely the wherewith to buy food for my children!  Walls are said to have ears,—­why have they not also tongues to cry out to him, to tell him of the misery so near?  Is there nothing which could strike a spark of human feeling from his flinty heart?” Then, reproaching herself for the rebellious feeling, she would murmur a prayer for strength and patience.

The partition between the two houses was thin.  She and Bernard could frequently hear the old man moving about his dreary apartments, or going up or down the stairs leading to the cellar.  “Old Willis is counting his money-bags again, I guess!” Bernard would say lightly, as the familiar shuffling to and fro caught his ear; while his mother, to banish the shadow of envious discontent, quietly told a decade of her Rosary.

The conversation anent the subject of the coal kept recurring to her mind with odd persistency.  Repeatedly of late she had awakened in the night and heard the miser stumbling around; several times she was almost certain he was in her cellar, and—­yes, surely, at the coal,—­purloining it piece by piece, probably.  Then just as, fully aroused, she awaited further proof, the noise would cease, and she would conclude she must have been mistaken.  At last, however, it would seem that her suspicions were confirmed.

On this occasion Mrs. Farrell had not retired at the usual hour.  It was after midnight, yet she was still occupied in a rather hopeless effort to patch Jack’s only pair of trousers; for he evinced as remarkable an ability to wear out clothes as any son of a millionaire.  The work was tedious and progressed slowly, for her fingers were stiff and the effort of sewing painful.  Finally it was finished.  With a sigh of relief she rested a moment in her chair.  Just then the silence was broken by a peculiar sound, like the cautious shifting of a board.  That it proceeded from the cellar was beyond question.  A singular rattling followed.  She rose, went into the hall and listened.  Yes, there was no delusion about it:  somebody was at the coal,—­that coal which, she remembered bitterly, was now but a small heap in the bin.  That the culprit was Stingy Willis there could be little doubt.

Bernard had fallen asleep on the sofa an hour or more before.  His mother stole to his side, and in a low voice called him.  He stirred uneasily.  She called again, whereupon he opened his eyes and stared at her in bewilderment.

“Hark!” she whispered, signalling to him not to speak.