“But we were happier then, father,” said Sarah Bond; “we were so cheerful and happy then, and so many poor people blessed my dear mother, and Mary”—­

“Hiss—­ss,” uttered the dying miser; “don’t dare mention your sister, who disgraced me by marrying a pauper; a pauper who threatened my life, because I would not give him my money to save him from starving; but he did not get the old father-in-law’s gold; no; he starved, and”—­

The words thus uttered by her father, who she knew had not many hours to live—­uttered, too, with such demoniac bitterness—­forced the gentle, patient woman to start from her seal, and pass rapidly across the room to the side of his bed, where she sank upon her knees, and seized his shrunken hands in hers.  “Father!” she exclaimed, “I have been your child for forty years, and you have said, that during that period, by no act of my own, have I ever angered you.  Is it not so?” The old man withdrew one hand gently, turned himself round, and looked in her face:  “Forty years!  Is it forty years?” he repeated; “but it must be; the fair brow is wrinkled, and the abundant hair grown thin and gray.  You were a pretty baby, Sarah, and a merry child; a cheerful girl, too, until that foolish fancy.  Well, dear, I’ll say no more about it; good, dutiful girl.  You gave it up to please your father full twenty years ago, and when he dies, you shall have all his gold—­there’s a good father!  You must keep it, Sarah, and not give it, nor lend it.  I know you won’t marry, as he is dead; nor see your sister—­mind that; if you see her, or serve her, the bitterest curse that ever rose from a father’s grave will compass you in on every side.”

“My father!” she said, “oh! in mercy to yourself, revoke these words.  She knew nothing of her husband’s conduct; he used her even worse than he used you.  Oh! for my sake say you will forgive Mary.  It is all I ask.  Do what you please with your wealth, but forgive my sister.”

“You were always a fool, Sarah,” he replied faintly and peevishly.  “If I could do as I please, I would take my property with me, for you will surely spend it.  But there is another condition, another promise you must give me.  Now, don’t interrupt me again.  We will talk of her by-and-bye, perhaps.  As long as you live, Sarah, as you value my blessing, you must not part with anything in this room.  You will live on in the old house, or perhaps sell it, and have a smaller; yet don’t spend money in new furnishing—­don’t; but never part with anything in this room; never so much as a stick.”

This promise was willingly given; for, independently of her love for her father, Sarah Bond had become attached to the inanimate objects which had so long been before her.  Again she endeavoured to lead her father away from that avarice which had corrupted his soul, and driven happiness and peace from their dwelling.  She urged the duty of forgiveness, and pleaded hard for her sister; but, though the hours wore away, she made no impression upon him.  Utterly unmindful of her words, he did not either interrupt her or fall into his former violence.  On the contrary, he seemed involved in some intricate calculation—­counting on his fingers, or casting up lines of imaginary figures upon the coverlit.