of ’omne ignotum pro mirifico,’ he pondered on its vastness with indefinite amazement, although probably it might not reach the quarter of his own.  For it should in common charity be stated, that, with all her hiding and hiving propensities, Mrs. Quarles, however usually a screw, was by fits and starts an extravagant woman, and besides spending on herself, had occasionally helped her own kith and kin; poor niece Scott, in particular, had unconsciously come in for many pleasant pilferings, and had to thank her good aunt for innumerable filched groceries, and hosieries, and other largesses, which (the latter in especial) really had contributed, with sundry other more self indulgent expenses, to make no small havoc of the store.

Still, this store was Simon’s one main chance, the chief prize in his hope’s lottery; and it was with a pang, indeed, that he found all his endeavours to compass its possession had been vain.  Was that endless cribbage nothing, and the weary Bible-lessons on a Sunday, and the constant fetchings and carryings, and the forced smiles, sham congratulations, and other hypocritical affections—­fearing for his dear aunt’s dropsy, and inquiring so much about her bunions—­was all this dull servitude to meet with no reward?  With none? worse than none!  Fool that he was! had he schemed, and plotted, and flattered, and cozened—­ay, and given away many pretty little presents, lost decoys, that had cost hard money, all for nothing—­less than nothing—­to be laughed at and postponed to his Methodist sister Scott?  The impudence of deliberately telling him he “didn’t want it, and was rich enough!” as if “enough” could ever be good grammar after such a monosyllable as “rich;” and “want it” indeed! of course he wanted it; if not, why had he slaved so many years? want it, indeed! if to hope by day, and to dream by night—­if to leave no means untried of delicately showing how he longed for it—­if to grow sick with care, and thin with coveting—­if this were to want the gold, good sooth, he wanted it.  Don’t tell him of starving brats, his own very bowels pined for it; don’t thrust in his face the necessities of others—­the necessity is his; he must have it—­he will have it—­talk of necessity!

Wait a bit:  is there no way of managing some better end to all this? no mode of giving the right turn to that wheel of fortune, round which his cares and calculations have been hovering so long?  Is there no conceivable method of possessing that vast hoard?

Bless me! how huge it must be! and Simon turned whiter at the thought:  only add up Mother Quarles’s income for fifty-five years:  she is seventy-five at least, and came here a girl of twenty.  Simon’s hair stood on end, and his heart went like a mill-clapper, as he mentally figured out the sum.

Is there no possibility of contriving matters so that I may be the architect of my own good luck, and no thanks at all to the old witch there?  Dear—­what a glorious fancy—­let me think a little.  Cannot I get at the huge hoard some how?