As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth looking round at the disconsolate old kitchen his eyes began to kindle with the illumination of an enthusiasm that never long deserted him.  He raised his hand, clenched it and smote it energetically against the smoky panel over the fireplace.

“The time is come,” said he; “with such a treasure at command, it were folly to be a poor man any longer.  Tomorrow morning I will begin with the garret, nor desist till I have torn the house down.”

Deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat a little old woman mending one of the two pairs of stockings wherewith Peter Goldthwaite kept his toes from being frost-bitten.  As the feet were ragged past all darning, she had cut pieces out of a cast-off flannel petticoat to make new soles.  Tabitha Porter was an old maid upward of sixty years of age, fifty-five of which she had sat in that same chimney-corner, such being the length of time since Peter’s grandfather had taken her from the almshouse.  She had no friend but Peter, nor Peter any friend but Tabitha; so long as Peter might have a shelter for his own head, Tabitha would know where to shelter hers, or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring him to her native home, the almshouse.  Should it ever be necessary, she loved him well enough to feed him with her last morsel and clothe him with her under-petticoat.  But Tabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never infected with Peter’s flightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and follies that she viewed them all as matters of course.  Hearing him threaten to tear the house down, she looked quietly up from her work.

“Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter,” said she.

“The sooner we have it all down, the better,” said Peter Goldthwaite.  “I am tired to death of living in this cold, dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old house.  I shall feel like a younger man when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, please Heaven, we shall by this time next autumn.  You shall have a room on the sunny side, old Tabby, finished and furnished as best may suit your own notions.”

“I should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen,” answered Tabitha.  “It will never be like home to me till the chimney-corner gets as black with smoke as this, and that won’t be these hundred years.  How much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr. Peter?”

“What is that to the purpose?” exclaimed Peter, loftily.  “Did not my great-grand-uncle, Peter Goldthwaite, who died seventy years ago, and whose namesake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?”

“I can’t say but he did, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, threading her needle.