Last of all, a thought struck her—­it must have been a mouse at the preserves.  And Mrs. Quarles forthwith opened the important cupboard, where Jennings now well knew the idol of his heart was shrined.  Then another thought struck Mrs. Quarles, though probably no unusual one, and she seemed to have mounted on a chair, and to be bringing down some elevated piece of crockery.  Simon could see nothing with his eyes, but his ears made up for them:  if ever Dr. Elliotson produced clairvoyance in the sisters Okey, the same sharpened apprehensions ministered to the inner man of Simon Jennings through the instrumental magnet of his inordinately covetous desires.  Therefore, though his retina bore no picture of the scene, the feelers of his mind went forth, informing him of every thing that happened.

Down came a Narbonne honey-pot—­Simon saw that first, and it was as the lamp of Aladdin in his eyes:  then the bladder was whipped off, and the crock set open on the table.  Jennings, mad as Darius’s horse at the sight of the object he so longed for, once thought of rushing from his hiding-place, taking the hoard by a coup de main, and running off straightway to America:  but—­deary me—­that’ll never do; I mustn’t leave my own strong-box behind me, say nothing of hat and shoes:  and if I stop for any thing, she’d raise the house.

While this was passing through the immaculate mind of Simon Jennings, Bridget had been cutting up an old glove, and had made one of its fingers into a very tidy little leather sacklet; into this she deposited a bright half sovereign, spoil of the day, being the douceur of a needy brush-maker, who wished to keep custom, and, of course, charged all these vails on the current bill for mops and stable-sponges.

“Ha!” muttered she, “it’s your last bill here, Mr. Scrubb, I can tell you; so, you were going to put me off with a crown-piece, were you? and actually that bit of gold might as well have been a drop of blood wrung from you:  yes—­yes, Mr. Scrubb, I could see that plainly; and so you’ve done for yourself.”

Then, having sewed up the clever little bag, she dropped it into the crock:  there was no jingle, all dumby:  prudent that, in his aunt—­for the dear morsels of gold were worth such tender keeping, and leather would hinder them from wear and tear, set aside the clink being silenced.  So, the nephew secretly thanked Bridget for the wrinkle, and thought how pleasant it would be to stuff old gloves with his own yellow store.  Ah, yes, he would do that—­to-morrow morning.

Meanwhile, the pig-skin is put on again, and the honey-pot stored away:  and Simon instinctively stood a tip-toe to peep ideally into that wealthy corner cupboard.  His mind’s eye seemed to see more honey-pots!  Mammon help us! can they all be full of gold? why, any one of them would hold a thousand pounds.  And Simon scratched the palms of his hands, and licked his lips at the thought of so much honey.