'Yes!' cried Peter Goldthwaite, again; 'to-morrow I will set about it.'
The deeper he looked at the matter, the more certain of success grew Peter. His spirits were naturally so elastic, that, even now, in the blasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the spring-time gayety of other people. Enlivened by his brightening prospects, he began to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin, with the queerest antics of his lean limbs, and gesticulations of his starved features. Nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, he seized both of Tabitha's hands, and danced the old lady across the floor, till the oddity of her rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the rooms and chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaite were laughing in every one. Finally, he bounded upward, almost out of sight, into the smoke that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor again, endeavored to resume his customary gravity.
'To-morrow, at sunrise,' he repeated, taking his lamp, to retire to bed, 'I'll see whether this treasure be hid in the wall of the garret.'
'And, as we're out of wood, Mr. Peter,' said Tabitha, puffing and panting with her late gymnastics, 'as fast as you tear the house down, I'll make a fire with the pieces.'
Gorgeous, that night, were the dreams of Peter Goldthwaite! At one time, he was turning a ponderous key in an iron door, not unlike the door of a sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vault, heaped up with gold coin, as plentifully as golden corn in a granary. There were chased goblets, also, and
