Virago and shrew as she was, she could not look at him as he lay there so death-like, without a feeling of compassion.  She had him carried to his room in the attic, where she attended him with perhaps as much sympathy as was compatible with her rude nature.  For many days he lay in a dreaming kind of stupor; yet the images which forced themselves on his mind, although vague and fitful, were by no means painful; sickness had overtaken him in the midst of right doing, and the impression left by the high and holy duty in which he had last been engaged remained, to shed an influence stronger than the pressure caused by bodily pain.  “Fear not, I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God.  I will strengthen thee; I will help and uphold thee,” were words which floated continually in his mind, although seemingly insensible to all outward objects.

For many days little hope of recovery was given by the physician, called in at the pressing instance of Thomas Burton, who declared he would pay the expense himself; and Mr. Walters, dreading the consequences to his own reputation should the boy die without medical aid, had consented.  Skilful treatment, youth, and a good constitution, effected a change which, with good nursing, would have rapidly restored him to health; the latter, however, was entirely wanting, Mrs. Walters believing that if she kept from scolding, and brought him warm drinks, she laid “Bill” under life-long obligation to her for good nursing.

On the day before New-Year’s he was altogether better; he could think of previous occurrences, and spoke with Thomas Burton of many things, but not until the evening of that day, when Jem Taylor got up to see him, had he thought of the purse, which was still in the pocket of his vest.

The presence of Jem, as if associated with money, somehow recalled the recollection of his finding the treasure; and he could not, weak and unable to consider consequences as he was, refrain from telling him all about it, and begged him to inquire in the neighbourhood who had lost it.

“You are green as ever, Bill,” said Jem, who, nevertheless, was full of his own kind of sympathy for our hero; “you might as well look for a needle in a hay-stack as for the owner of a purse in New York.  The only way is to advertise it, and make whoever answers describe it.  But if I were in your place I would keep it.  Finders are keepers; but if you don’t like to spend it all yourself or change it, just give it to me.  The one who has lost it may be rich, and by this time has forgotten it.  You are now recovering from sickness, and will want oranges and such things; I can get all that you ought to have, and nobody be any the wiser.”

Poor William, weak and sick; the tempter was again there—­a messenger of Satan ready to overthrow the faith which until now had sustained him.  “Finding is not stealing,” was the specious whisper; “and many keep what they find.”

For a moment only he swerved.  He spoke no word; and while Jem watched his pale countenance, as it changed with the varied emotions which were struggling in his heart, he could scarcely understand the feelings which swayed his own.  The conflict was severe, but short, as it always is where strict integrity has been the ruling principle, and truth the bulwark.  The flush faded from the brow; leaving it deadly pale, as he firmly said,—­