“The wine, Tabitha,” he cried—­“my grandfather’s rich old wine!  We will drink it now.”

Tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the chimney-corner and placed the bottle before Peter, close beside the old brass lamp which had likewise been the prize of his researches.  Peter held it before his eyes, and, looking through the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden glory which also enveloped Tabitha and gilded her silver hair and converted her mean garments into robes of queenly splendor.  It reminded him of his golden dream.

“Mr. Peter,” remarked Tabitha, “must the wine be drunk before the money is found?”

“The money is found!” exclaimed Peter, with a sort of fierceness.  “The chest is within my reach; I will not sleep till I have turned this key in the rusty lock.  But first of all let us drink.”

There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the bottle with old Peter Goldthwaite’s rusty key, and decapitated the sealed cork at a single blow.  He then filled two little china teacups which Tabitha had brought from the cupboard.  So clear and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within the cups and rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers at the bottom of each more distinctly visible than when there had been no wine there.  Its rich and delicate perfume wasted itself round the kitchen.

“Drink, Tabitha!” cried Peter.  “Blessings on the honest old fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and me!  And here’s to Peter Goldthwaite’s memory!”

“And good cause have we to remember him,” quoth Tabitha as she drank.

How many years, and through what changes of fortune and various calamity, had that bottle hoarded up its effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two such boon-companions!  A portion of the happiness of a former age had been kept for them, and was now set free in a crowd of rejoicing visions to sport amid the storm and desolation of the present time.  Until they have finished the bottle we must turn our eyes elsewhere.

It so chanced that on this stormy night Mr. John Brown found himself ill at ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair by the glowing grate of anthracite which heated his handsome parlor.  He was naturally a good sort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the misfortunes of others happened to reach his heart through the padded vest of his own prosperity.  This evening he had thought much about his old partner, Peter Goldthwaite, his strange vagaries and continual ill-luck, the poverty of his dwelling at Mr. Brown’s last visit, and Peter’s crazed and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the window.

“Poor fellow!” thought Mr. John Brown.  “Poor crack-brained Peter Goldthwaite!  For old acquaintance’ sake I ought to have taken care that he was comfortable this rough winter.”  These feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of the inclement weather, he resolved to visit Peter Goldthwaite immediately.