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away the purse. But then his heart grows faint within him. He reaches the bank of the river, and—then turns back again.
"How can I possibly part with the purse," he says, "while it yields a stream of gold of its own accord?"
By this time our poor friend has grown grey, and thin, and as yellow as his own gold. He no more so much as thinks about luxury now. He has become faint and feeble; health and rest have utterly deserted him. But still with trembling hand he goes on taking ducats out of the purse. He takes, and takes; and how does it all end? On the bench on which he used to sit gloating over his wealth.—on that very bench he dies, in the act of counting the last coins of his ninth million.
