"Sehr gut!" laughed the watch-maker, who was delighted to hear his nephew use the little German he had taught him. "Wie viel geld haben sie?"

"Mehr als vier-und-dreisig thaler," replied Leopold, who had been preparing himself, during his walk from the hotel to the store, to speak what German he had thus far uttered.

"Viel geld!" cried the watch-maker.

"How much have I now?" asked Leopold, in plain English, forgetting for the time all the rest of the German he knew.

"Sprechen Deutsch!" exclaimed the watch-maker.

"I don't remember any more German," laughed the young man. "How much money have I now?"

Herr Schlager opened the iron safe and placed in one of its draws the sum just given him by his nephew, and took therefrom a slip of paper. Leopold added the sums he had deposited, and made the amount eighty-seven dollars and some cents.

"Das is nicht enough, Leopold—eh?" asked the uncle.

"No, not yet."

"How many more you want of dollars?"

"I don't know exactly. They ask two hundred; but, as it is rather late in the season, I think they will take one hundred and fifty," replied Leopold, thoughtfully.

"You shall buy him now."

"Not this year, Uncle Leopold; and next spring they will put the price up again. I haven't even a hundred and fifty dollars."

"I shall let you haf de rest of das geld."

This proposition produced an argument; but the nephew finally consented to borrow the balance of the sum required, if one hundred and fifty dollars would answer the purpose. Leopold left the shop with an anxious heart; but in a couple of hours he returned for his own money and the loan.



CHAPTER VI.

MISS SARAH LIVERAGE.

For several months the landlord's son had had his eye on a new keel-boat, built during the preceding winter, which the owner did not feel able to keep for his own use. With a sort of desperate determination, Leopold had been saving every cent he earned about the hotel, or in his boat, in order to purchase this new craft, or one like it if she should be sold before his accumulations enabled him to buy her. The owner asked two hundred dollars for her; but as the season advanced, Leopold hoped to buy her for less. The matter had looked very hopeless to him until his first lucky catch of mackerel; and the second fortunate trip inspired him with confidence. His uncle had been his only confidant, and they had often discussed the project together. But now Herr Schlager had advanced the sum he needed to make the purchase, and the boat was bought. For two hours the young man had haggled with the owner about the price; but one hundred and fifty dollars, cash down, was a temptation which the builder could not resist in the end, when he thought of his unpaid grocery and provision bills.

No name had yet been given to the new boat, which was now the property of Leopold, for when the owner decided to sell her, he thought it was better to let the purchaser christen her to suit himself. The new craft was a sloop twenty-two feet long, with quite a spacious cuddy forward. She was a fast sailer, and her late owner declared that she was the stiffest sea-boat on the coast. Of course Leopold was as happy as a lord, and he wanted to hug Herr Schlager for his considerate loan of sixty-two dollars; but his uncle was quite as happy, and after the custom of his own country, he did actually hug and kiss his nephew, though the young man was rather confounded by the demonstration, especially as the passers-by in the street halted to observe the spectacle.

As soon as the business of the purchase was finished, Leopold hastened to the cottage of Mrs. Wormbury, where he found Stumpy digging the early potatoes in the garden. He informed his friend of the great event of the day, and invited him to take a sail in the sloop. On their way to the boat they stopped at the hotel, where Leopold told his father of the purchase. He did so with some misgivings, and took care to explain the uses to which he intended to put the boat, before his father had time to express an opinion. Mr. Bennington, to the great satisfaction of his son, offered no objection to the purchase; on the contrary, he seemed to be pleased with the transaction.

"There are two gentlemen in the house that want to go over to the Isle of Holt (Isle-au-Haut) this afternoon," added the landlord. "I was just looking for you to go and see whether Ben Chipman could take them over."

"I can take them over myself, father," said Leopold.

"So I was thinking. They want to go right off after dinner."

"I shall be ready. We will bring the boat down now.—Will you go with me, Stumpy?" continued Leopold, turning to his friend.

"I should like to go, first rate," answered Stumpy.

They hastened to the wharf where the new boat lay, and in a few minutes more they were standing down the river in her.

"She works tip-top," said the skipper, as soon as he began to feel the boat bearing on the tiller. "She minds her helm as soon as I touch the stick."

"She's as handsome as a picture, too. She don't look much like your old boat," replied Stumpy, with a smile as he realized the contrast.

"Not much. She seems to go at railroad speed. We haven't been used to going along at this rate."

"That's so. What's her name Le?"

"She hasn't any yet. We will think of something for her."

The skipper sailed the boat down to the mouth of the river, and came about off the light-house, located on a projecting cliff which extended out nearly half a mile from the southern shore. The trial-trip was entirely satisfactory; and on her return the sloop was moored near the old boat, which was now used as a tender for the new one. The young boatmen went home to get their dinners and made preparations for the trip to the Isle-au-Haut. Leopold saw the two gentlemen who were to be his passengers, and agreed to take them over for five dollars. They did not object to the price, as the island was over ten miles distant, and there would not be any packet for several days.

Leopold filled the water-keg in the sloop, and laid in a stock of provisions for the voyage. At two o'clock the party started; but we do not intend to follow them in the details of the trip. The breeze was fresh and the sloop was fast. At four o'clock Leopold had landed his passengers; but it was eight in the evening when the boat reached Rockhaven on her return, for the skipper was obliged to beat back. The five dollars earned in the voyage was promptly handed over to the watch-maker, reducing by this amount the debt due him. By nine o'clock Leopold was fast asleep, for he and Stumpy had arranged to try the mackerel again the next morning.

The skipper of the new boat was very tired for the day had been a long, laborious, and exciting one. It was four o'clock when he awoke the next morning. When he went out, he found Stumpy waiting on the piazza for him. He had not stopped to eat his breakfast, but had provision enough in the basket for both of them.

"We are late," said Stumpy, as Leopold joined him.

"I know it; but I was so tired I didn't wake up," replied the skipper.

"I have seen half a dozen boats go down the river since I stood here, added Stumpy, ruefully.

"I don't expect we shall do much to-day. Folks have found out about the mackerel."

They went down to the new boat, and were soon under way. At the point, they saw that all the craft which came out of the river were headed in the same direction—towards the reef off High Rock.

"What are you going to call this boat?" asked Stumpy, as the skipper started the sheets, off the light-house. "I don't feel quite at home in her without being able to call her by name."

"I haven't thought of any name yet," replied Leopold.

"We want something to call her by."

"She has no name."

"Then we will call her the No-Name, till you fix upon something," laughed Stumpy.

"All right."

The "No-Name" passed half a dozen of the boats bound to the reef; but when she reached her destination, there were not less than twenty craft, of all sorts and sizes, on the fishing-ground, huddled into a heap, near the spot where the luckless Waldo had gone down. The secret was out. A fisherman going off to the deep water, on the morning before, had seen Leopold's boat near the reef; and when it was said that the young man had obtained a large catch of mackerel, he knew where they came from. But the vicinity of the reefs was the usual place for catching these fish when they were to be had at all; and as soon as there were mackerel in the market, the fishermen and others knew where to go for them. In a few moments Leopold had joined the crowd, and the fish bit as smartly as before. The No-Name was more fortunate than most of her companions, and got about four hundred mackerel. She might have got twice as many if she had remained longer on the ground; but Leopold reasoned that fish without a market were not very valuable. His was the first boat to reach Rockhaven; and he sold his fare at seven cents apiece. By half past eight the No-Name was washed down, and ready for a party, if any offered. Stumpy went home with seven dollars in his pocket, and Leopold diminished his debt by twenty-one dollars.

There was no "job" for him at the hotel that day; but in the afternoon Leopold took his father and mother and Herr Schlager out to sail in the new boat; and he was quite as happy on this occasion as though he had made five dollars by the trip. The next morning there were no mackerel off the ledges, or if there were, they would not bite; and the No-Name made a profitless trip. When she returned, Leopold found two gentlemen at the hotel who wished to sail over to Rockland, as there was no steamer that day. While the skipper was making his trade with them, Harvey Barth entered the office. The sick man had finished his narrative of the loss of the Waldo the day before, and sent it off by the mail in the steamer. He looked sadder and more gloomy than usual.

"I should like to go over with you," said Harvey, after Leopold had named the price for the trip. "I will pay my share of it."

The gentlemen looked at Harvey and did not seem to like the appearance of him; and he certainly did not promise to be a very agreeable companion for an excursion. They took no notice of him, and the steward was mortified by their coldness.

"Are you going to leave us, Mr. Barth?" asked the landlord, who was behind the counter.

"Yes; I thought I would be on my way to New York as soon as I could, for I want to find that drummer," drawled Harvey, with his usual hacking cough. "I feel better this morning, and I think I can stand it to move towards home. Those men don't seem to want me to go with them, but I suppose I can wait till to-morrow. If you will give me my bill, I will pay it."

"Never mind that, Mr. Barth."

"But I can pay what I owe."

"You can't pay anything here," laughed the landlord. "We don't charge shipwrecked people anything."

"But I have been here about ten days."

"You can stay ten or twenty more at the same rate, if you will," added Mr. Bennington.

Harvey Barth remonstrated, but the landlord was firm. The physician who had attended him also refused to take a cent from him, and so did all who had done anything for him. He tried to give a dollar apiece to the employes of the hotel who had been kind to him, but not one of them would accept the gift. When Harvey left the room, the two passengers for Rockland asked the landlord who he was; and when informed that he was the only survivor of the Waldo, they changed their tone, and desired his company. They sent for him, and politely offered him a passage with them.

"I don't want to go where I am not wanted," replied Harvey.

"But we shall be delighted to have you go with us," said one of the gentlemen, and the other heartily indorsed the remark.

"I'll pay my share of the expense, if you are really willing to let me go with you."

"We are glad to have you go with us; and as to the expense, we will arrange that when we get to Rockland."

Shortly after the No-Name departed, manned, by Leopold and Stumpy, with the three passengers in the standing-room. On the passage, Harvey, at the request of his new friends, told the whole story of the wreck of the Waldo, and then dwelt with particular emotion upon the loss of his diary. One of the gentlemen resided in New York city, and volunteered to assist him in recovering the cherished volume. When they arrived at their destination, Harvey was not permitted to pay any portion of the expense of the trip; and the gentlemen insisted upon his accompanying them to the best hotel in the city, where from the abundant sympathy of the proprietor, he was not permitted to diminish his funds by a single dollar. Having, a few days after, obtained the fifty copies of the newspaper which contained his account of the loss of the brig, he started in the steamer for Boston, with a free ticket in his pocket.

His first care after he got on board the boat, was to read the narrative he had written. He was sorely grieved to find that the first half of the account had been struck out by the remorseless editor; but it must be added that this portion of the history was wholly irrelevant, being made up of observations on the outward voyage of the Waldo, and remarks upon the geography, climate, people and institutions of Cuba. Then, in the description of the wreck, Harvey was indignant when he found that all his finest passages had been eliminated from the manuscript. Adjectives and fine phrases without number had been struck out, and the poor steward felt that he might as well never have been a schoolmaster. The truth was, that the editor had only three columns of his paper to spare, and all he and his readers wanted were the facts in regard to the wreck. A vivid description of a tempest at sea seemed to be lost upon them. But Harvey felt that he should not realize half the pleasure he had anticipated in distributing the fifty copies of the paper among his friends at home.

It was late at night when the No-Name arrived at her moorings in the river at Rockhaven; for on the return trip the wind was contrary and very light. Leopold, after this "job," had reduced his indebtedness to Herr Schlager to about thirty-two dollars. Our space does not permit us to follow him in the process of extinguishing the debt, but it was all wiped out by the first of October. All the summer visitors had left the place, and it was a "dry time" at the Cliff House. The landlord counted up his profits, and felt rich when he realized that he owned the hotel, did not owe a dollar to any man, and had twenty-five hundred dollars in the bank, or otherwise available for immediate use. He had a plan drawn for the enlargement of the hotel which would give him fifty chambers, besides a large dining-room and parlor. But it would cost eight thousand dollars to complete the building and furnish the house; and being a prudent man, he decided not to carry out the project till his funds were considerably increased.

About the middle of October the steamer brought to Rockhaven a woman, apparently about forty years of age, who registered her name at the Cliff House as Miss Sarah Liverage. Though it was certain, from her own confession, that she had never been there before, she seemed to know all about the hotel, and all the persons connected with it. She was a plain-looking woman, well, but not richly, dressed, and her speech indicated that she was not a cultivated person. There was nothing remarkable about her, except her knowledge of the hotel, and a certain excitement in her manner, which indicated that she had come to Rockhaven for a special purpose, which, however, she was not forward in revealing. She followed the landlord into the office, though he insisted upon showing her into the parlor. She wrote her name in the register, and then astonished Mr. Bennington and Leopold by asking to have the room which had formerly been occupied by Harvey Barth assigned to her.

"That is not one of the rooms we usually give to ladies, and we can do better for you," replied the landlord.

"I'd rather have that room, if it don't make any difference to you," replied Miss Liverage.

"Certainly you can have it, if you want it, for it is not occupied."

"I shall be much obliged to you if you will let me have it."

"You knew Harvey Barth, I suppose," said the landlord, as Leopold, who often conducted guests to their rooms, picked up the small valise, which was her only baggage.

"Well, yes; I ought to know him. I took care of him in the hospital three weeks before he died," replied Miss Liverage, confidently.

"Is he dead?" asked Mr. Bennington, startled by the announcement.

"Yes, sir; he died about a fortnight ago."

"It is only six weeks since he left here," added Leopold, who was even more shocked than his father at the news.

"We didn't hear a word from him after he left Rockland," continued Mr. Bennington. "I'm sure I didn't think he was so near his end, though I saw that he couldn't live very long."

"I thought he would be able to get out again, till the very day he died. He ate a hearty dinner, for a sick man, and then was taken with bleeding at the lungs, and died right off. I went with his body to the place he was brought up, and he was buried a week ago last Thursday, from the house of his uncle. He had good care while he lived, if he was in the hospital; and I believe everybody in the town turned out to go to his funeral. But I guess I'll go to my room now."

Leopold conducted her to the chamber, placed her valise in a chair, and saw that the wash-stand was provided with water and towels.

"Are you sure this is the room that Harvey Barth had?" asked Miss Liverage, as Leopold was about to retire.

"Sure as I am of anything," replied the young man. "I used to stay with him a good deal, when I wasn't busy. Was Harvey Barth a relation of yours?"

"Well, no, not exactly; but I was a good deal interested in him. You are Leopold, I suppose," added Miss Liverage, who appeared to be anxious to change the direction the conversation had taken.

"That's my name."



"And this was Harvey's room," continued the woman glancing around the chamber, and then bestowing especial attention upon the fireplace.

"This was his room," replied Leopold, as he moved towards the door. "Can I do anything more for you?"

"No, nothing now. You are the boatman, I believe; and you have bought a new boat."

"I bought one just before Harvey Barth left the house. Did he tell you about her?"

"Well, nothing in particular, only he said you were a great boatman, and a very good boy."

As the woman did not seem inclined to say anything more, Leopold left the room, and returned to the office.

"Can you make out what she is, Leopold?" asked his father.

"No; she says she is no relation to Harvey, but she was a good deal interested in him. She seems to know all about me; but I suppose Harvey Barth told her."

"I wonder what she is driving at?" added the landlord, whose curiosity, as well as that of his son, was raised to the highest pitch.

"I haven't any idea. If she is not a relation of Harvey, what is she, and why did she want his room?"

"I can't tell."

"How old do you think she is, father?"

"About forty, I should say."

"Harvey couldn't have been engaged to her, or anything of that sort—could he?" suggested Leopold.

"I should think not. She is ten years older than he was, I should say," replied Mr. Bennington.

No satisfactory solution presented itself, and Miss Sarah Liverage had to remain a mystery for the time.



CHAPTER VII.

SOMETHING ABOUT THE HIDDEN TREASURE.

Miss Sarah Liverage had been three days at the Cliff House before the mystery of her coming appeared to promise a solution. The landlord was sure she had come for something, for all her speech and all her actions indicated this. She had not visited the shore for recreation, and was not idling away a vacation. One day she commenced a conversation with Mr. Bennington, and the next with Leopold; and, though she evidently desired to make some important revelation, or ask some startling question, she always failed to carry out her purpose. She was nervous and excitable; and on the second day of her stay at the hotel, the chambermaid discovered her in her room, on her knees before the fireplace, apparently investigating the course of the flue; but when the girl asked her what she was doing, she answered that she was looking for her shawl-pin, which she had dropped.

The weather was rather chilly, and the wind blew fresh and stormy on the bay, so that Leopold seldom went out in the new boat, but did a man's work about the hotel; for as the season advanced the "help" was reduced. Miss Liverage, for some reason, seemed to be very desirous of cultivating his acquaintance, and she talked with him much more than with his father. On the second day of her stay she offered him a dollar, when he brought her a pitcher of water to drink in the parlor, which the young man was too proud to accept. The guest talked to him for half an hour; and he noticed that she did not drink any of the water he had brought. On the strength of this and other similar incidents, Leopold declared that she was a very strange woman. She sent for him, or procured his attendance by less direct means, as though she had something to say; but she did not say it. She asked a multitude of questions in regard to some of the localities in the vicinity, but she did not connect her business at Rockhaven with any of them.

On the third day of her residence at the Cliff House a violent north-east storm commenced, and the guest could not go out of the house as she had been accustomed to do in the forenoon for a short time. From the cliff near the house Leopold had explained to her the geography of the vicinity; and when she inquired where the ledges were on which the Waldo had been lost, he indicated the direction in which they were situated, for the high land on the south shore of the river intercepted the view of them. Miss Liverage appeared to become more desperate in her purpose, whatever it was as the day passed away; and the storm seemed to increase her excitement. On the fourth day after her arrival, she vibrated between her chamber and the parlor all the forenoon, occasionally visiting the dining-room and the office. The landlord said she was "as uneasy as a fish out of water;" and he carried books and newspapers to her, but these did not seem to occupy her attention. She only glanced at them, and it was plain that her mind wandered when she attempted to read them. After dinner, on this eventful day her desperation appeared to culminate in a resolve to do something; and for the twentieth time since her arrival she sent for Leopold.

When he entered the parlor, where she was nervously walking across the floor, she closed the door after him, and looked out at the windows which opened on the piazza, apparently to assure herself that no one was within hearing distance of her. She labored under more than her usual excitement of manner, and the landlord's son was impressed with a belief that something was about to happen. Miss Liverage had evidently made up her mind to say something, and Leopold promptly made up his mind, also, to hear what it was.

"I didn't come down here for nothing," said she, and then paused to observe the effect of this startling revelation upon her auditor.

"I didn't suppose you did," replied Leopold, judging from the pause that he was expected to say something, though he was not very deeply impressed by the guest's announcement.

"Leopold, Harvey Barth said you were a very nice young man," she added.

"Then I suppose I am, for I think Mr. Barth was a man of good judgment," laughed Leopold.

"He told me you owed some money for your new boat."

"He told the truth at that time; but I don't owe anything now. I was very lucky with the mackerel, and I have had plenty of jobs for the boat, so that I have paid up all I owed."

"Then you have paid your debt," added Miss Liverage, apparently "headed off" by the young man's reply.

"I don't owe a cent to anybody."

"I didn't know but you might want to make some money."

"I do; I am always ready to make a dollar, though I don't owe anybody anything," replied Leopold, willing to encourage the woman, while he did not desire to make anything out of her.

"Five hundred dollars is a good deal of money," continued Miss Liverage, watching the countenance of the young man very closely.

Leopold did not dispute the remark, and with a nod he admitted the truth of it.

"I suppose you would not object to making five hundred dollars, Leopold."

"I don't believe I should, if I could make it honestly, fairly, and above-board; but I wouldn't steal five hundred dollars for the sake of having it."

"Of course not. I wouldn't, either," protested Miss Liverage. "I never did anything which was not honest, fair, and above-board, and I never mean to. Now, Leopold, I can put you in the way of making five hundred dollars."

"Can you? I am sure I shall not object. I suppose the money would do me as much good as it would anybody."

"I have no doubt it would. Now, can you keep a secret?" demanded the woman, more excited than ever; so much so that her manner began to be decidedly melo-dramatic.

"That depends on circumstances," answered Leopold, who was not yet quite clear in his own mind whether or not the woman was crazy. "If it is to cheat anybody out of a cent, even, I wouldn't keep a secret any more than I would the itch, if I could get rid of it."

"Nonsense, Leopold! I am not going to cheat or wrong anybody. I wouldn't do such a thing for all the money in the world."

"I can keep a secret that won't harm anybody," added the young man.

"Will you promise me solemnly not to tell any one, not even your father, what I say to you?" asked Miss Liverage, in a low tone, and in a very impressive manner.

"If the matter don't concern my father, I won't tell him of it, or anybody else. But I don't want you to tell me anything that concerns any person—that is, in a way to do any injury."

"It don't concern any living soul," interposed Miss Liverage, impatiently. "I know where there is some money."

The last remark was whispered, after a glance at the door and all the windows of the parlor.

"Where is it?" asked Leopold, now for the first time manifesting a real interest in the conversation.

"In the ground."

"Buried?"

"Yes."

Miss Liverage was very much agitated for a few moments, for she had now actually entered upon the business which had brought her to Rockhaven. Of course this important revelation was in some manner to involve Harvey Barth; but Leopold was not willing to believe that the sick man had buried any considerable sum of money, unless his speech and his life while at the hotel were both a lie.

"Will you promise to keep the secret?" demanded the woman, as soon as she had overcome in a measure her agitation.

"On the condition I said, I will," replied Leopold. "But after you have told me, if I find that anybody is to be wronged by my keeping still, I shall tell all I know."

"I'm satisfied. I hope you don't think I came down here, all the way from New York, to cheat or wrong anybody."

"I hope not. If you did, I can't do anything for you."

"You shall judge for yourself. It is just as Harvey Barth said: you are a good young man, and you will be as honest by me as you mean to be by other folks."

"Of course I will be."

"Your share of the money will be five hundred dollars. Shall you be satisfied with this?"

"I think I shall be," laughed Leopold, to whom the amount seemed like a fortune.

"You agree to take this as your share?"

"Yes; I agree to it."

"And to keep the secret?"

"On the conditions I named."

"I am satisfied with the conditions. If you and I don't get this money, somebody else will, who has no more right to it than we have."

"But who owns the money?" asked Leopold, whose views of an honest policy required him to settle this question first.

"Nobody."

"Nobody!" exclaimed the young man. "It must belong to somebody."

"No it don't."

"How can that be?"

"The owner is dead and gone."

"Then it belongs to his heirs."

"He has no heirs."

"Who is he, anyhow?"

"He isn't anybody now. Didn't I say he was dead and gone?" demanded Miss Liverage, impatiently.

"Well, who was he, then?"

"I don't know."

"It's very strange," mused Leopold.

"I know it's strange. I am the only person living who knows anything about this money. If I don't take it, somebody else will, or it will stay in the ground till the end of the world," said the woman. "It's a plain case; and I think the money belongs to me as much as it does to anybody else."

"Where is it buried?"

Before she would answer this question, Miss Liverage satisfied herself that Leopold understood the bargain they had made, and was ready to abide by all its conditions. With the proviso he had before insisted upon, the young man agreed to the arrangement.

"I don't know exactly where the money was buried," continued the owner of the great secret.

"O, you don't!" exclaimed Leopold, rising from his chair, and bursting into a laugh. "Then this is a 'wild goose chase.'"

"No, it isn't. But now you have agreed to the terms, I will tell you all about it. Sit down; for I don't want to scream out what I have to say. Will any one hear us?"

"No; I think not."

"Won't your father?"

"No, he has gone up to Squire Wormbury's."

Miss Liverage drew her chair up to the cheerful wood fire that blazed in the Franklin stove, and Leopold seated himself in the corner nearly opposite her, with his curiosity intensely excited by what he had already heard.

"In the first place do you know whatever became of Harvey Barth's diary?" Miss Liverage began.

"I haven't the least idea; but he said it was stolen from him, and he was going to get it when he went to New York," replied Leopold, deeply interested even in this matter.

"But he never found it, and I don't believe anybody stole it. I think it is in this house now. Our first business is to find it."

"We couldn't find it in the time of it, and I don't believe we can now."

"We must find it, for that diary will tell us just where the money is buried."

"You never will find the diary or the money."

"Don't be too fast. Harvey told me where the money was buried. It was under the cliffs at High Rock," added Miss Liverage.

"The cliffs are about a mile long."

"The money was buried in the sand."

"The beach under High Rock is half a mile long, and it would be a winter's job to dig it all over. But who hid the money there?"

"A man who was wrecked in the brig."

"Was it Harvey Barth?"

"No; the man was a passenger and called himself Wallbridge; but Harvey thought this was not his real name."

"That was the name of the passenger as it was printed in the newspaper."

"Harvey wrote down all he knew about him in his diary. He buried his money—twelve hundred dollars in gold—on the beach; and in the diary the place is described. Harvey inquired about the passenger in Rockland; but no one knew anything about him."

"Twelve hundred in gold," said Leopold, musingly.

"Yes; and I have agreed to give you nearly half of it."

"If we find it," added the young man, who considered the information rather too indefinite for entire success.

"I think we can find it."

"Did Harvey Barth tell you just where the money was buried?"

"He said it was buried on the beach. He talked a great deal about it the day before he died, and said, if he ever got well enough, he should go and get it; and then he would pay me handsomely for all I had done for him. I was a nurse in the hospital, you see, and was his only companion. He felt very bad about the loss of his diary, and told me all about it. He said he put it in the flue of the fireplace, because there was no closet in the room. Now, if nobody stole it, the diary must be there yet. I have looked into the flue, but I couldn't see anything of it; and I have made up my mind that it dropped down somewhere."

"The room is directly over this parlor, and if it dropped into the chimney, it must have come down into this fireplace," replied Leopold. "I am sure nothing was ever seen of it."

They examined the flue of the Franklin stove, and Miss Liverage was satisfied with the young man's statement in regard to its construction.

"Some one may have picked it up and put it away," suggested the nurse.

"There was a summer piece fastened into the front of this stove, which was not taken down till I removed it to make the fire when you came. If the diary had been there, I should have found it. But I will search the whole house for it, though I am of Harvey Barth's opinion, that some one stole the book. If any person saw him put it into the flue, as Harvey thought the drummer did, he might have supposed it was something very valuable. Why should he take so much pains to hide it, if it was not? If the drummer did not take it himself, he may have told somebody else, who did steal it. If he had left the diary on the table, nobody would have touched it, I know. It was all because he hid it, that he lost it."

Miss Liverage was sure the diary was still in the house, and during that and the next day, while the storm lasted, Leopold searched the hotel from cellar to garret. He did not find the key to the hidden treasure of High Rock. The nurse searched for herself, so far as she could do so without exciting the suspicions of the hotel people; but she was no more successful than her confidant in the secret. If the diary was in the house, it could not be found. The structure of the chimney, in which the flue of the fireplace was built, was carefully examined; and Leopold's conclusion seemed to be fully verified. Miss Liverage was reluctantly compelled to abandon all hope of finding the coveted volume.

The storm ended, and the sun shone again. The wind came fresh and cold from the north-west. The nurse looked from the windows of the hotel upon the waters of the river, which, sheltered from the force of the blast, were as smooth as an inland pond though the waves rolled up white and angry beyond the point. The guest at the Cliff House, though she had given up all expectation of finding the diary, had not abandoned the hope of obtaining the hidden treasure.

"Now, Leopold, we must go to the beach under High Rock," said she, after the storm was over.

"What is the use of going there, if you don't know where the money is hidden?" demanded the boatman.

"I think I can find the place," replied Miss Liverage. "Harvey told me where it was; but I can't think of the names he used in telling me. I was pretty sure I should find the diary, when I left New York."

"If you want to go to High Rock, I will take you down there in the boat," added Leopold.

"I'm afraid of boats. Can't we go by land?"

"Not very well. My boat is as stiff as a man-of-war, and you can go a great deal easier in her than you can climb over the rocks on the other side of the river."

Miss Liverage considered the matter, and after dinner she decided to undertake the hazardous trip, as she regarded it. She had an engagement the next week in New York, and she could not remain in Rockhaven more than a day or two longer. What she did must be done at once. Mr. Bennington was astonished when he saw his son taking her out to sail on such a chilly, blustering day; but he always allowed his guests to suit themselves, and offered no objection to the expedition. Leopold seated his timid passenger in the standing-room, and shoved off the boat. In the river she made smooth sailing of it; but the instant she passed the range of the high bluff on the north shore, the No-Name plunged into a heavy sea, burying her bow deep in a foam-crested billow, whose dense spray drenched the water-proof of Miss Liverage, and it seemed to her as if the end of all things had come.

"Mercy on us!" screamed she, trying to rise from her seat, as the bow of the boat was lifted far up by the wave.

"Sit down, Miss Liverage," said Leopold, pushing her back into her seat.

"We shall be drowned!" cried the terrified passenger.

"This is nothing; the boat is doing first rate," answered Leopold.

"I shall be wet to the skin," she added, as another cloud of spray was dashed over her. The skipper went to the cuddy, forward, and brought from it an old oil-cloth coat, which he spread over his passenger. Though this garment protected her from the spray, the angry waves were still a vivid terror to her, and the skipper vainly assured her there was no danger. Letting off the main sheet, he put the boat before the wind, and then she rolled, pitched, and floundered, till Miss Liverage declared she was frightened out of her life.

"Don't be alarmed. There! you can see the ledges now where the Waldo went to pieces," added Leopold, pointing to the black rocks, now in sight, upon which the white foam broke at every surge of the sea.

"I can't see anything, Leopold," gasped Miss Liverage, holding on to the washboard with both hands. "Do go back as fast as you can."

"But you can't find the money if you don't go and look for it."

"I don't care for the money. I wouldn't stay out here another minute for the whole of it," protested the passenger.

She pleaded so earnestly that Leopold finally came about, and beat his way back to the river, and soon landed her in front of the hotel. She declared she would not get into a boat again for all the treasure hidden in the bowels of the earth.

Miss Liverage was satisfied that Leopold was both honest and zealous, and she finally concluded to commit to him the search for the buried money. The next day she started for home, disappointed and disheartened at the result of her visit to Rockhaven, though she had some hope that her confidant might yet discover the treasure.



CHAPTER VIII.

AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

The landlord of the Cliff House was a man who attended to his own business to the exclusion of that of others, and he did not trouble himself any further about the affairs of his guest, though his curiosity was somewhat excited at first. Leopold "was not happy" in being obliged to conceal his thoughts and actions from his father; but then Mr. Bennington did not question him in regard to her conduct after he was a little accustomed to the ways of Miss Liverage. The young man did not place much reliance upon the statements of the nurse. He had heard and read about "money-diggers" before. He was familiar with the story of Wolfert Webber, who had dug over the whole of his cabbage garden in search of hidden treasure, and he had no little contempt for those who allowed themselves to be carried away by such vain and silly illusions. While he had no doubt that Miss Liverage was in earnest, he had little confidence in the existence of the hidden treasure at High Rock.

Though Leopold did not intend to become a Wolfert Webber, and dig over half a mile of beach under the cliffs, he admitted to himself the possibility of the existence of the treasure. He had promised the nurse that he would search for the money, and he did so; but he felt that the task was like "looking for a needle in a hay-mow," and he abandoned it before he had made himself ridiculous in his own estimation. He wrote a letter to the nurse, who had given him her address in New York, informing her of the ill success of his endeavors. She answered the letter, giving him further instructions, saying that the money was buried not more than a foot below the surface of the beach, and near a projecting rock. Probably when she was less excited than during her visit to Rockhaven, her memory had recalled some of the statements of Harvey Barth; for certainly she had said nothing so definite as this when she was with Leopold.

The young man, aided by these directions, which certainly were not very precise, made another attempt to find the treasure. There was more than one "projecting rock," and he dug over all the sand and gravel to the depth of a foot in the vicinity of every part of the cliff which answered to the description given. He worked very hard, and the boatmen who saw him at his labors wondered if he expected to find clams so far up on the beach.

He found neither clams nor money; and when he had finished the search he was more than ever dissatisfied with himself for being led away by such a chimera. He wrote to Miss Liverage again, informing her of the continued failure of his efforts, and declaring that he would not "fool with the matter" any longer. The nurse did not answer his last letter and it was evident that she too had "lost hope." Leopold never heard anything more from her or about her, and in a few weeks he had forgotten all about the "hidden treasure of High Rock," for he did not believe there was any treasure there, and it was not pleasant for him to remember that he had made a fool of himself.

Leopold and Stumpy went to school together during the winter, and continued to be as good friends as ever. Mrs. Wormbury struggled with her hard lot, and Squire Moses still threatened to take possession of the cottage. The Cliff House prospered in its small way, and the landlord still nursed his grand project of having a big hotel in Rockhaven. During the next season Leopold did very well with his boat, both with the fishing and with the "jobs" from the hotel. He saved his money and still kept it in the iron safe of Herr Schlager, who was as proud of and as devoted as ever to his nephew. In the spring, the question for the name of the new boat came up again, and the skipper was prepared to settle the question. Among the guests at the hotel in the summer, was the family of the Hon. Franklin Hamilton, a wealthy merchant of New York, who was a native of Rockhaven. They had spent a few days at the Cliff House for several seasons, though it was painfully apparent to the landlord that his accommodations were not satisfactory to his distinguished and wealthy guests, for the time they spent at the house was very brief. The family consisted of Mr. Hamilton, his wife and an only daughter. They always wanted to sail when they came to Rockhaven, but Ben Chipman's boat did not suit them. Leopold did not buy his sloop till after they had gone; but he congratulated himself upon the fact that when they came the next season he should be able to sail them in a boat which was good enough for any nabob in the land.

Being in funds in the spring, he fitted up the sloop very nicely, and could not help anticipating the pleasure it would afford him to sail the Hamiltons, especially the daughter, who, at the age of fourteen, was a very pretty girl. Revelling in these delightful thoughts, it suddenly occurred to him that he might give the young lady's name to the boat. It was certainly a very pretty name for so jaunty a craft as the sloop. It was Rosabel. In another week it appeared in gilt letters on the stern of the boat. In the summer the family came again. Rosabel was taller and prettier than ever, and Leopold actually realized all his pleasant and romantic anticipations, as he sailed her and her parents about the bay. Mr. Hamilton engaged the boat for every day during his stay, which was prolonged to a whole week, or twice as long as he usually remained; for Rosabel was so pleased with the water excursions that her father extended his visit at her desire. Probably Leopold had as much romance in his nature as most young men of seventeen, and after his first full season in the Rosabel, the beautiful face and form of Miss Hamilton were a very distinct image in his mind, often called up, and often the subject of his meditations, though he could not help thinking of the wide gulf that yawned between the daughter of the rich merchant and the son of the humble landlord of a small hotel.

In the fall of the year, Leopold observed that his father was making frequent visits to Squire Moses Wormbury; and it soon came out that the rich man was to loan the landlord six thousand dollars, to enable the latter to make his contemplated improvements upon the hotel. The squire was to have this sum on the first of January, and though Mr. Bennington did not want it for several months, he consented to take it at that time; for Squire Moses would not allow it to remain a single month uninvested. The landlord was confident that he could make money enough on the new hotel to pay off the mortgage in three years. As soon as the snow melted in the spring, the work was commenced. The old portion of the hotel was partly torn to pieces, and for a time business was very good at the Island Hotel, for the Cliff House was closed.

Both the landlord and his son, pleasurably excited by the alterations in progress, worked with their own hands. Among other changes, the parlor chimney was taken down, and Leopold took a hand in the job, enjoying the operation of tumbling down to the cellar great masses of brick.

"Hold on, Le," shouted the mason who was at work with him, when they had removed the chimney as far as the level of the parlor floor. "What's that?"

The mason pointed to a bundle which was lodged in an opening back of the flue of the Franklin stove that had stood in the parlor. It was covered with bricks and lime dust, but the mason brought it to the surface with his iron bar.

"I know what it is," exclaimed Leopold, as he picked up the package, and knocked it several times against a partition in order to remove the soot and dust from it.

It was the oil-cloth containing the diary of Harvey Barth.

Leopold was somewhat excited by the discovery, and all the incidents of Miss Sarah Liverage's visit to the hotel came back fresh to his mind, though they had occurred eighteen months before.

"What is it?" asked the mason, whose curiosity was excited by the event.

"It is a book that belonged to Harvey Barth, the steward of the Waldo, which was wrecked off High Rock," replied Leopold. "I will take care of it."

"But how came it in the chimney?" asked the workman.

"He put it in the flue of the fireplace, and it tumbled down."

"What did he put it in there for?"

"Because there was no closet in the room, and he was a very queer fellow. He is dead now."

"What are you going to do with the book, then?"

"Send it to his friends, if I can find where they are."

Leopold carried the diary to his room, in a part of the house which was not to be disturbed, and locked it up in his chest. He wanted to read the portion which related to the wreck of the Waldo, and the burying of the money, if such an event had occurred, of which he had some grave doubts. But he could not stop then, for he was doing a man's work for his father, and his conscience would not allow him to waste his time. The mason asked more questions when Leopold returned to his work, and they were answered as definitely as the circumstances would permit. The young man examined the construction of the chimney, and found another flue besides that of the Franklin stove, into which the diary had fallen. It had formerly served for a fireplace in an adjoining apartment, and had been bricked up before the landlord purchased the estate. The Franklin stove, which was merely an iron fire place set into the chimney, had the less direct flue of the two, so that the package had fallen where it was found.

During the rest of the day, Leopold's thoughts were fixed upon the long-lost diary, for which Miss Liverage and himself had vainly searched. Doubtless she would claim the diary, if it was found; but had she any better right to it than its present possessor? Leopold considered this question with no little interest. The secret of the hidden treasure was certainly in his keeping, and after the "trade" made between them, he felt that she had some rights in the matter which he was bound to respect. But the affair was no longer a secret; for after the "humbug was exploded," as Leopold expressed it, he told his father all about it. The landlord only laughed at it, and insisted that the nurse was crazy; and her excited conduct at the hotel rather confirmed his conclusion.

The result of Leopold's reflections during the day was a determination to write to Miss Liverage again, if he found anything in the diary which would enable him to discover the hidden treasure. The day seemed longer to him than usual, so anxious was he to examine the pages of the diary. When at last his work was done, and he had eaten his supper, he hastened to his chamber, and opened the oil-cloth package. He was greatly excited, as most people are when long-continued doubts are to be settled. In a few moments he would know whether or not Miss Liverage was crazy, and whether or not there was any foundation to the story of the hidden treasure. He locked the door of his room before he opened the package, for he felt now that the secret was not his own exclusive property. If there was twelve hundred dollars in gold buried in the sands under High Rock which belonged to nobody, he felt bound in honor by his agreement with the nurse to make the division of it with her, in accordance with the conditions of the contract.

He desired very much to speak to his father about the diary; but he did not feel at liberty to do so. It did not appear that the mason with whom Leopold was at work had told Mr. Bennington, or any person, of the finding of the package. After his questions had been answered, he seemed to feel no further interest in the diary, and probably forgot all about it before he went home to dinner. The discovery of it did not seem to him to be a matter of any importance, and Leopold kept his information all to himself.



Removing the string from the package, the young man proceeded to unwrap the oil-cloth, shaking the soot and lime dust into the fireplace as he did so. The diary came out clean and uninjured from its long imprisonment in the chimney. Leopold's agitation increased as he continued the investigation, and he could hardly control himself as he opened the book and looked at the large, clear, round hand of the schoolmaster. The writing was as plain as print.

He turned the leaves without stopping to read anything, till he came to the record of the last day whose events Harvey Barth had written in the book; but those pages contained only an account of his illness, and a particular description of his symptoms, which might have interested a physician, but did not secure the attention of the young man. He turned back to the narrative of the loss of the Waldo. It was very minute in its details, and contained much "fine writing," such as the editor of the newspaper had struck out in the manuscript for publication.

Leopold had read the account in the newspaper, and he skipped what he had seen in print, till the name of "Wallbridge" attracted his attention. The first mention of the passenger that he saw was made when he went into the cabin, after his recovery from the effects of the lightning, and returned with something in his hand. The reader followed the narrative, which was already quite familiar to him, till he came to the landing of the party in the whale-boat on the beach; and at this point he found something which Harvey Barth had not written in his newspaper article, or mentioned during his stay at the hotel. Leopold read as follows:—

"As soon as we had landed on the beach, Wallbridge told me he had twelve hundred dollars in gold, which he had earned by his two years' work in Cuba. By the light of the flashes of lightning I saw the bag in his hand. It was an old shot-bag, tied up with a piece of white tape. Wallbridge said he was afraid the bag might cost him his life, if he held on to it, and I suppose he thought he might have to swim, and the weight of the gold would sink him.

"I have figured up the weight of twelve hundred dollars in gold, and I found it would be almost five pounds and a half Troy, or nearly four and a half Avoirdupois. I don't blame him now for wanting to get rid of it; but I did not think before I figured it up, that the money would weigh so much. Four and a half pounds is not much for a man to carry on land, but I should not want to be obliged to swim with this weight in my trousers' pocket, even when I was in good health.

"Wallbridge said he would bury the money in the sand, under a projecting rock in the cliff, so that he could come and get it when he wanted it. Just then a flash of lightning came, and I looked up at the cliff under which he stood. I saw the projecting rock, and it looked to me, in the blaze of the lightning, just like a coffin, from where I stood. It seemed to me then just like a sign from Heaven that I should soon need a coffin, if the sea did not carry me off; but if the sign meant anything, it did not apply to me, but to Wallbridge, who in less than half an hour afterwards was swallowed up in the waves. I am sorry for him, and I only hope he had not done anything very bad, for I could not help thinking he had committed some crime."

Leopold did not see why the writer should think so; but then he had not read the preceding pages of the diary, which Harvey Barth had written just before the passenger came to the galley to light his pipe. The narrative, after a digression of half a page of reflections upon the unhappy fate of Wallbridge, continued:—

"Wallbridge got down on his knees, and scooped out a hole not more than a foot deep in the sand, and dropped the bag into it. I looked up at the projecting rock again, when another flash of lightning came, and there was the coffin, just as plain as though it had been made for one of us. It was not a whole coffin, but only the head end of one. It seemed to project and overhang the beach at an angle of about forty-five degrees, and a man could have sat down on the upper end, which was about twenty feet high. The shape of it startled me so that I did not think any more of what the passenger was doing, though I saw him raking the sand into the hole with his hands. I thought the thing was a bad sign, and I did not like to look at it, though I could not help doing so when the lightning flashed. I walked along to get out of the way of it, and passed the place where Wallbridge was at work. When I looked up at the cliff again, I could not see the coffin any more. There was the projecting rock, but on this side it did not look at all like a coffin.

"I walked along to the end of the beach, where an angle in the cliff carried it out into the water. I expected every moment to be carried off by the sea or to be crushed against the rocks. I did not expect to save myself, and I could not help feeling that the coffin I had seen was for me. Just then a flash of lightning showed me a kind of opening in the cliff, near the angle."

Leopold knew this part of the story by heart, and had often passed up and down through the ravine, which Harvey Barth described in his diary with as much precision as though the locality had contained a gold mine.

"A projecting rock shaped like a coffin!" said the reader, as he raised his eyes from the book to consider what he had read. "I don't remember any such rock, though there may be such a one there. I must go down to High Rock in a thunder-storm, and then perhaps it will look to me as it did to him."

But the nurse was right, after all; there was a solid foundation to the story she had told, though she had not mentioned any rock shaped like the head of a coffin. Probably Harvey Barth, who at the time he told the nurse the story had expected to get well enough to go to his home, had not intended to describe the locality of the hidden treasure so that she could find it, but only to assure her that he should have money with which to reward her, if she took good care of him during his sickness. Leopold read the account of the burying of the money again; but he could not recall any rock answering to the description in the book. He had dug up the sand under every projecting rock that overhung the beach, to the depth of a foot, without finding the treasure. By the death of every person on board of the brig except Harvey Barth, the knowledge of the acts of Wallbridge was necessarily confined to him. If the money had ever been buried on the beach, Leopold was confident it was there now. No one could have removed it, for no one could have suspected its existence.

Faithful to the agreement he had made, Leopold wrote a letter that evening to Miss Liverage, directing it to the address she had given him. The letter contained but a few lines, merely intimating that he had important business with her. The young man was now anxious to visit the beach under High Rock, for the purpose of identifying the mortuary emblem which had so strongly impressed the author of the journal, in the lightning and the hurricane; but he could not be spared from his work, and it was several months before he was able to verify the statements in the diary.

Weeks and months passed away, and no answer to his letter came. In June he wrote another letter, to the "Superintendent of Bellevue Hospital, New York City," in which Harvey Barth died, requesting information in regard to Miss Sarah Liverage. A reply soon came, to the effect that the nurse had married one of her patients, and now lived somewhere in Oregon, the writer did not know where.



CHAPTER IX.

COFFIN ROCK.

Miss Sarah Liverage had taken herself out of the reach of all further communication in regard to the hidden treasure. Leopold had no hope of being able to see or hear from her. She had not sent him her last address, and he had used all the means in his power to carry out the terms of the agreement. He considered himself, therefore, released from all responsibility, so far as she was concerned. But even then he did not feel like going to High Rock and taking the money for his own or his father's use. He could not get rid of the idea that the money belonged to somebody. If Wallbridge had saved this money from the earnings of two years in Cuba, it certainly ought to go to his heirs, now that he was dead.

The remarks of Harvey Barth in his diary seemed to indicate that the passenger had committed some crime, or at least that he was open to the suspicion of having done so. Leopold considered, whether this might not be the reason why no one had yet claimed any relationship to him. The young man was sorely perplexed in regard to his duty in the matter; and he was really more afraid of doing wrong than he was of losing twelve hundred dollars in gold. He did not like to confess it even to himself; but he was afraid that his father's views, if he told him about the hidden treasure, might he looser than his own. He believed that the landlord was even more honest than the majority of men; but, after he had commenced upon the extensive improvements of the hotel, the son feared that the father might be tempted to do what was not exactly right.

While all these questions remained unsettled in the mind of Leopold, he did nothing to recover the money, until the hotel was nearly completed. In fact, he had no time to do so, for his father kept him busy from morning till night, and then he was so tired that he did not even feel like reading the diary. After he had obtained the important facts in regard to the buried money, he did not feel any further interest in the journal of Harvey Barth. He had tried to read portions of it; but each day commenced with a detailed account of the writer's health, with remarks on the weather, and similar topics, which did not hold the attention of the young man. The enlargement of the hotel was a subject which engrossed his whole mind, after the novelty of finding the diary had worked itself off. He was deeply interested in the progress of the work; and when the putting up of the partitions gave form and shape to the interior, not many other matters occupied his mind.

The mechanics finished their labors, and the hotel was ready to receive the new furniture which had been purchased for it. Leopold was busier than ever, and hardly a thought of the hidden treasure came to his mind. He put down carpets and put up bedsteads, till he was nearly worn out with hard work, though the excitement of seeing the various apartments of the new house assume their final aspect prevented him from feeling the fatigue of his labor. By the middle of June everything was ready for the reception of guests, though not many of them were expected to arrive till the middle of July. Now the hotel was called the "Sea Cliff House," and its opening was advertised in the principal cities of New York and New England. As the Island Hotel lost its "trade" and the new house obtained it all, Ethan Wormbury was correspondingly angry.

As usually happens to those who rebuild and remodel private or public houses, the expense far exceeded the estimates. The war of the rebellion was in progress, and the prices of everything in the shape of building material and furniture had fearfully increased. The nine thousand dollars which Mr. Bennington had on hand to pay his bills, was exhausted long before the work was completed. The landlord was sorely troubled, and he went to Squire Wormbury to obtain a further loan on his property; but the money-lender declared that he would not risk another dollar on the security. Then Mr. Bennington mortgaged his furniture for two thousand dollars,—all he could obtain on it,—in order to relieve the pressure upon him; but even then the "floating debt" annoyed him very seriously. He had always paid his bills promptly, and kept out of debt, so that his present embarrassment was doubly annoying to him, on account of its novelty. With all his mind, heart and soul he regretted that he had undertaken the great enterprise, and feared that it would end in total ruin to him.

The landlord talked freely with his wife and Leopold about his embarrassments, and the son suffered quite as much as the father on account of them. There were guests enough in the hotel to have met the expenses of the old establishment, but not of the new one; and the landlord found it difficult even to pay the daily demands upon him. He was almost in despair, and a dollar seemed larger to him now than ever before, and hardly a single one of them would stay in his pocket over night. The interest on the mortgage note would be due on the first of July, and Mr. Bennington knew not where to obtain the first dollar with which to pay it. The landlord was in great distress, for he knew that Squire Moses was as relentless as death itself, and would show him no mercy.

"I don't see but I must fail," said Mr. Bennington, with a deep sigh, as the day of payment drew near.

"Fail, father!" exclaimed Leopold.

"That will be the end of it all. If I don't pay my interest on the day it is due, Squire Wormbury will foreclose his mortgage, and take possession of the house," groaned the landlord.

"Can't something be done, father?" asked the son.

"I don't know what I can do, I have borrowed of everybody who will lend me a dollar. With one good season I could pay off every dollar I owe, except Squire Wormbury's mortgage. It seems hard to go to the wall just for the want of a month's time. I am sure I shall make money after the season opens, for I have engaged half the rooms in the house after the middle of July. Half a dozen families from Chicago are coming then, and when I was in Boston a dozen people told me they would come here for the summer."

"I think you will find some way to raise the money, father," added Leopold, more hopeful than his father.

"I don't see where it is coming from. The bank won't discount any more for me. I feel like a beggar already; and all for the want of a month's time."

Leopold was very sad; but in this emergency he thought of the hidden treasure of High Rock. But he had already made up his mind that this money did not belong to him. He even felt that it would be stealing for him to take it. In his father's sore embarrassment he was tempted to appropriate the treasure, and let him use it as a loan. But then, if his father should fail, and the heirs of Wallbridge should appear, he could not satisfy them, or satisfy his own conscience.

But the temptation was very great; and the next time he went out alone in the Rosabel, he visited the beach under High Rock. It was the first time he had been there this season. He landed, and commenced the search for the projecting rock which was shaped like a coffin. He walked from one end of the beach to the other, without discovering any rock which answered to Harvey Barth's description. He started to retrace his steps, remembering that the writer of the journal had been unable to observe the singular form of the rock after he had changed his position. The tide was low, and he walked on the edge of the water; but by going in this direction he had no better success. After spending an hour in looking for it, he could discover no rock which looked like the emblem of death. He returned to Rockhaven, almost convinced that Harvey Barth had imagined the scene he had described in his diary.

The next day, just at dark, a thunder-storm, the first of the season, came up. The weather had been warm and sultry for a week, and the farmers declared that the season was a fortnight earlier than usual. The roaring thunder and the flashing lightning reminded Leopold of the scene described in Harvey's journal, and especially of the burying of the twelve hundred dollars in gold. Without saving anything to any one of his intention, he left the hotel, and embarked in the Rosabel, with no dread of the rain, or a squall. There was wind enough to take him down as far as the ledges, and then it suddenly subsided. Leopold furled his mainsail, for the calm indicated a coming squall. It wanted an hour of high tide, and he anchored the Rosabel at a considerable distance from the shore, paying out the cable till the stern of the boat was in water not more than three feet deep. Pulling upon the rope till he was satisfied that the anchor had hooked upon one of the sharp rocks below the beach, he prepared to go on shore. The beach sloped so sharply that the sands were not more than twenty feet from the stern of the Rosabel.

It was now quite dark, but the scene was frequently lighted up by the sharp lightning. The tide had risen so that the water was within a rod of the cliffs. Taking an oar in his hand, he planted the blade end of it in the water as far as he could reach from the stern, and grasping the other end, he made a flying leap with its aid, and struck at a spot where the water was only knee-deep. He had scarcely reached the beach before the squall came; but it blew out of the north-west, so that the Rosabel was partially sheltered from its fury by the projecting cliffs between High Rock and the mouth of the river. She swung around, abreast of the cliffs, into the deep water between the beach and the ledges. Leopold watched her for a few moments, fearful that the change of position might have unhooked the anchor; but it held on till the squall, which expended its force in a few moments, was over. Then the rain came down in torrents, drenching the boatman to the skin.

Leopold, with the oar in his hand, walked along the narrow beach, watching the play of the lightning on the rocks of the cliff. Occasionally he halted to observe the shapes they assumed, and he could not help perceiving that the glare of the electric fluid gave them an entirely different appearance from that which they usually wore. He had landed near the ravine by which Harvey Earth had escaped from the angry billows, and he walked to the farther end of the beach without seeing any rock which bore the least resemblance to a coffin. The tide was rising all the time, driving him nearer and nearer to the cliff. Leopold was not much excited, for his former failure to find the hidden treasure had almost convinced him that no such thing existed. He was cool enough—drenched to the skin as he was—to reason about the movements of the shipwrecked party on the beach.

"When Harvey Barth left Wallbridge filling up the hole in which he had put the bag of gold," thought Leopold, "he must have walked towards the 'Hole in the Wall'"—as the ravine was called by those who visited High Rock. "If he hadn't walked towards it, he wouldn't have found it. If he had walked up and down the beach, he would have seen Wallbridge and the mate when they went off in the whale-boat to return to the wreck. This shows plainly enough that he only walked one way before he came to the Hole. That way must have been the opposite direction from that I have just come; for if he had walked the way I have, he could not have reached the Hole; and there is no beach to walk on beyond it.

"When Harvey Barth looked behind him, he could not see the coffin; and of course I couldn't see it when I came this way. I suppose it only shows itself, like the man's head near the light-house, from one particular point. The head can only be made out from a boat, when it ranges between the island and the light, one way, and in line with the dead tree and Jones's barn on the north shore, the other way. Twenty feet from this position, nothing that looks like a head can be seen. Probably this coffin works by the same rule. If it don't, it is strange that I have never noticed it. Now I will walk in the direction that Harvey Barth did, and if there is any coffin here I shall see it."

The bright flashes of lightning still illuminated the cliffs, as Leopold walked slowly towards the Hole in the Wall, scrutinizing the rocks with the utmost care. By the rising of the tide his line of march was now within ten feet of the cliff, and the beach was of about the same width as when the shipwrecked party had sought a refuge upon it; but the sea was comparatively calm, and there was no peril on its smooth sands. Leopold had gone about one third of the length of the beach, when his eye rested upon a formation in the cliff, which, as the lightning played upon it, assured him he had found what he sought. The view he had obtained of it was only for an instant. He halted, waiting again till the lightning again, enabled him to see the rock.

"That's it, as sure as I live!" exclaimed the boatman.

Again and again he saw it, as the lightning glared upon it; and the resemblance to a coffin was certainly very striking. Harvey Barth was justified again, and Leopold acknowledged to himself the correctness of the description in the diary. Thrusting the oar down into the sand on the spot where he was, so as not to loose the locality, he stood for some time observing the phenomenon on the rocks. He understood now why he had not seen it before. In his previous search, he had walked on the beach twenty feet farther out from the cliff. Changing his position by wading into the water, the shape of the coffin on the rock was lost before he had moved ten feet from the oar. From this point it assumed a new form, looking like nothing in particular but a mass of rock.

Leopold returned to the stake which he had set up, and then walked from it to the cliff. When he stopped, the projecting rock was directly over his head. He knew the spot very well. He had baked clams there for Rosabel Hamilton during one of his visits to High Rock with her; and he had dug over every foot of sand beneath it, in search of the hidden treasure, without finding it. But Harvey Barth was so correct in regard to his description of the locality that the boatman was more disposed to rely upon his statements in other matters than he had ever been before. He gathered a pile of stones to mark the place, and then gave himself up to a careful consideration of the circumstances of the case. He could not now escape the conclusion that the money was actually buried beneath the projecting rock—"Coffin Rock" he had already named in his own mind; and he proceeded to inquire why he had not found it, when he dug the ground all over.

"Miss Liverage told me the hole which Wallbridge dug was not more than a foot deep; and Harvey Barth's diary contained the same statement," said the boatman to himself. "I dug a foot down, and the money was not there. I remember I found a piece of boat-hook, with the iron on it about that distance below the surface. What does that prove? How happened that piece of a boat-hook, to be a foot under ground? On the top of the cliffs the sand and gravel, with a little soil on top, is six feet deep, and this beach is formed by the caving down of the earth. There is no beach beyond the Hole, because the rocks are all bare on the top of the cliff. I suppose the sand keeps dropping down, and the roll of the sea has spread it out as it fell. I have no doubt that the hurricane piled the sand up a foot or more next to the cliff. That's the reason I didn't find the money. I will dig deeper now."

Satisfied with this reasoning, Leopold waded off to the Rosabel which the tide had swung in towards the beach again. In the cuddy he had a lantern,—for use when he was out after dark,—which he lighted. As he was obliged to supply bait for parties who went out fishing with him, he kept under the seat in the standing-room a boy's shovel, which his father had given him years before, with which he dug clams on the beaches. Letting out the cable, the boat drifted still nearer to the beach, and the skipper landed, with his lantern and shovel. Throwing off his wet coat, he began to dig under Coffin Rock. He allowed considerable latitude in marking out the size of the hole, to allow for any possible want of accuracy in Harvey Barth's observation.

It was pitch dark after the shower, for the sky and the stars were obscured by dense clouds. Leopold had only the light of his lantern to enable him to work, and his task was gloomy enough to satisfy the veriest money-digger that ever delved into the earth for hidden treasure. In half an hour, more or less, he had dug the hole a foot deep, and then felt that he had reduced this part of the beach to its former elevation, at the time of the wreck of the Waldo. A descent of another foot would decide whether or not the treasure had an existence, save in the brain of the sick man.

It was hard work, after a full day's labor at the hotel; but Leopold redoubled his exertions after he had removed the first foot of sand. As he proceeded, he examined every stone he threw out of the hole, to assure himself that he did not miss the bag of gold. The task began to be somewhat exciting, as the solution of the problem drew nearer.

The hole which he had laid out was six feet square; and when he had thrown out all the sand and gravel to this depth, in order to save any unnecessary labor he began to dig in the middle of the excavation, for this was directly under the centre of the projecting rock. If Harvey Barth's statement was exactly correct, the bag would be found where Leopold was now at work. Faster and faster he plied the shovel, the deeper he went, and, when he judged that the lower hole was nearly a foot deep, his excitement of mind was intense. He had come to the last layer of sand he had to remove in making the second foot in depth. Placing his heel upon the shovel, he attempted to force it down the length of the blade; but something impeded his progress. It was not a rock, for it yielded slightly, and gave forth no sharp sound. Scraping out the sand with the shovel, Leopold began to paw it away with his hands. Presently he felt something which was neither sand nor gravel. He drew it forth from the hole, and held it up where the light of the lantern struck upon it.

It was the hidden treasure.



The bag was just what Harvey Barth had described, and it weighed at least the four pounds and a half Avoirdupois which he had made it by his calculations. Leopold was tremendously excited, as he seated himself on the brink of the hole, with the shot-bag in his hand.

"Hallo, Le! Is that you?" shouted a voice from the water.

It was Stumpy in Leopold's old boat.



CHAPTER X.

DOUBTS AND DEBTS.

Leopold was terribly startled when he heard the voice of Stumpy. He was the possessor of a mighty secret, and he felt that he had been very imprudent in exposing it to discovery. It would have been better to dig up the hidden treasure in the daytime, when the light would have enabled him to observe the approach of an intruder. But he was glad it was Stumpy, rather than any other person, who had detected him in his strange and unseasonable labor. If need be, he could reveal the great secret to his friend, which he would have been very unwilling to do to any one else. But he did not wish to say a word about the hidden treasure even to Stumpy.

He was startled when he heard the voice of his friend, and, without deciding at that moment upon his future course, he dropped the shot-bag into the hole from which he had taken it, and hastily covered it with sand to the depth of a foot, in fact, filling up the smaller hole he had made. This was the work of a moment; and before Stumpy had time to approach the spot, Leopold, with the lantern in his hand, walked to the place where his friend had landed.

"What are you doing here in the dark?" demanded Stumpy, as Leopold approached him.

"Lighting up the darkness," replied the money-digger, lightly.

"What were you doing with that shovel?" added Stumpy, as his friend stepped into the old boat, the bow of which rested on the beach.

"Digging, of course," answered the possessor of the mighty secret, not yet decided whether or not to reveal what he knew, and what he had been doing.

"I don't think there is much fun in digging down here where it is as dark as a stack of black cats."

"I was not digging for the fun of it. But what brought you down here in the darkness, Stumpy?" asked Leopold, willing to change the subject.

"I wanted to see you, and went over to the Sea Cliff House. Your father told me you had gone out in your boat just at dark; and, as a smart squall had just stirred up the bay, he was somewhat worried about you."

"Was he? I didn't know that he ever worried about me when I was on the water. I think I know how to take care of myself."

"No doubt you do; but the smartest boatmen get caught sometimes. I think we had better hurry back, for the longer you are out, the more anxious your folks will be about you."

"That's so," replied the considerate Leopold. "But we have two boats here, and we can't both return in the Rosabel."

"Can't we tow the old boat?"

"We can, but I don't like to do it, for the old boat will be sure to bump against the Rosabel, and scrape the paint off. Now, Stumpy, if you will take the new boat, and sail back in her, I will follow you in the old tub. You will get to the house long before I do, and you can tell the folks I am right side up."

"Why don't you go in the Rosabel, and tell them yourself?" suggested Stumpy.

Just at this point Leopold was bothered. If Stumpy reached the hotel first, he would tell Mr. Bennington where he had found his son, on the beach under High Rock, with a lantern and shovel in his hand. Of course his father would wish to know what he was doing there; and under present circumstances this would be a hard question, for Leopold was deeply indoctrinated with the "little hatchet" principle. In a word, he could not tell a deliberate lie. He could not place himself in a situation where a falsehood would be necessary to extricate himself from a dilemma. Unhappily, like thousands of other scrupulous people, he could "strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel;" for it was just as much a lie to deceive his father by his silence as it was by his speech.

But, after all Leopold's motive was good. He was afraid his father would use the hidden treasure to relieve his embarrassments in money matters, and he was not willing to subject him to this temptation. The young man was still firm in his faith that the money belonged to somebody, and just as firm in the belief that it was his duty to seek out the owner thereof, which he had not yet done, or had time to do.

He had thought a great deal about the ownership of the treasure; and, arguing the question as he might to himself, he always reached the same conclusion—that the money did not belong to him, and that it did belong to somebody else. He had considered the possibility of finding the proprietor of the twelve hundred dollars in gold through the owners of the Waldo, and the consignees or agents of the brig in Havana. This was before he found the old shot-bag; and, now that he had held it in his hand, this conclusion was even more forcible than before. Satisfied that the secret would be safer in the possession of Stumpy than of his father, he was tempted to tell him the whole story.

"After all, I guess we will go back in the Rosabel, Stumpy," added Leopold, when he had considered the matter. "You can keep your eye on the old boat, and see that she don't do any harm."

"I can keep her from doing any mischief," said Stumpy.

Leopold asked his companion to haul the Rosabel up to the beach, and, shoving off the old boat, he returned to the spot under Coffin Rock where he had been digging. Using his shovel vigorously for a few moments, he filled up the excavation he had made, and levelled off the sand and gravel, so that no chance visitor at the place should discover the traces of his labor.

By the time he had finished the work, the Rosabel had been hauled up to the beach, and the painter of the old boat attached to her stern. In a few moments the money-digger and his friend were under way, standing towards the mouth of the river.

"I don't see why my father should be worried about me," said Leopold, as he seated himself at the tiller.

"You don't very often go out in the night, and in a thunder-storm, too. I was worried about you myself, Le, for any fellow might be caught in a squall. Without saying anything to your father, or any other person, I took the old boat, and stood out of the river. I shouted to you with all my might. When I got out beyond the point, I saw the light on the beach, under High Rock, and went for it."

"Well, I'm much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken," added Leopold.

"But what in the world were you doing on the beach with the lantern and the shovel?" asked Stumpy. "You couldn't catch any clams under the rocks where you were."

"I didn't catch any. When you sung out, I was sitting on the beach. I had anchored the Rosabel, with a long cable, and when the squall came, it blew her off so far from the shore that I could not get on board of her without swimming."

"O, that's it—was it?" exclaimed Stumpy, entirely satisfied with this explanation.

Certainly every word which Leopold had uttered was strictly and literally true; but Stumpy's deception was as complete as though it had been brought about by a lie. The money-digger was not quite satisfied with himself, though he had an undoubted right to "keep his own counsel," if he chose to do so. But while he was thus bothered about the situation, his friend changed the topic.

"I wanted to see you," said Stumpy, after he had accepted his companion's explanation.

"What for?"

"That old hunks had gone and done it!" added Stumpy, whose chief emotion seemed to be a violent indignation.

"What old hunks?"

"Why, grandad."

"What has he done?"

"Taken possession of our house; or, what amounts to the same thing, has notified my mother that she must move out on the first of August, if the mortgage note is not paid."

"That's rough," added Leopold.

"Rough! That isn't the word for it," protested Stumpy, warmly. "It is mean, rascally, contemptible, infamous, infernal! I should bust the dictionary if I expressed myself in full. If Squire Wormbury was a poor man, or really needed the money, it would be another thing; or if he would wait till houses and land are worth something in Rockhaven. But he takes the time when the war has knocked everything into a cocked hat; and nobody knows whether we are going to have any country much longer, and nobody dares to buy a house. Confound him! he takes this time, when the place won't fetch anything! He knows it will bring two thousand dollars just as soon as the clouds blow over. He intends to make money by the operation."

"Well, I don't see that you can help yourself, hard as the case is."

"I don't know that I can; but I have been trying to do something."

"What?"

"I have asked two or three to take the mortgage; but I haven't found anybody yet. Nobody down here has any money except my grandad, and it might as well be buried in the sea as to be in his trousers' pocket."

"Did you want to see me about this business?" asked Leopold.

"Yes."

"Do you think I could help you out?"

"That was my idea."

"That's good!" laughed Leopold. "My father can hardly keep his head above water now. He don't know where he shall get the money to pay the interest on his mortgage, due on the first of July. I should not be much surprised if your grandfather had to foreclose on the Sea Cliff House."

"Of course I don't expect you to find the money for us, only to help me in another way. But what you said about your father reminds me of something I was going to tell you, when I saw you."

"What's that?"

"If my grandad was a decent man, I wouldn't say anything about it," replied Stumpy, apparently troubled with a doubt in regard to the propriety of the revelation he was about to make.

"If there is anything private about it, don't say anything," added Leopold, whose high sense of honor would not permit him to encourage his friend to make an improper use of any information in his possession.

"The conversation I heard was certainly not intended for my ear," continued Stumpy, thoughtfully.

"Then don't mention it."

"I think I ought to tell you, Le, for the business concerns your father."

"No matter whom it concerns, if the information don't belong to you," said Leopold. "If I hear my father and Jones talking about Smith in a private way, I don't think I have any right to go and tell Smith what they say. It makes trouble, and it's none of my business."

"I think you are right in the main, Le; but let me put the question in another form. Suppose you heard two scallawags in your hotel talking about setting my mother's house on fire; suppose you knew the plan they had formed to burn the cottage; would you say it was none of your business, because you happened to hear them, and the conversation was not intended for your ears?"

"I don't believe I should say or think any such thing. These men would be plotting to commit a crime and it would be my duty to tell you," replied Leopold.

"My sentiments exactly. A crime! That's just my opinion of what my grandad is doing."

"If you think so, it is perfectly proper for you to let on."

"I do think so and I shall let on," added Stumpy. "As you said just now, the interest on the mortgage note which your father owes Squire Moses will be due on the first day of July; and that's only ten days ahead. The squire thinks your father won't be able to raise the money, because he has been to him to ask the old skin flint to let him up a little."

"Yes; I know all that," replied Leopold, sadly, for he dreaded the first of July almost as a condemned convict dreads the day of execution.

"I went up to grandad's the other day, to carry his spectacles, which he left on the table when he came to tell mother that she must move out on the first of August. I wanted to give the spectacles into his own hands, and to say a word to him about the place, if I got a chance. I went into the kitchen, where the old man stays when he's in the house. He wasn't there; but I heard his voice in the next room where he keeps his papers, and I sat down to wait till he came out. There was no one in the kitchen but myself, for the women folks had gone up stairs to make the beds."

"But whom was Squire Moses talking to?" asked Leopold, much interested.

"I was going to tell you all about it, Le; but I wanted to say, in the first place, that I didn't go into the kitchen to listen, and I didn't want to break in on the old man when he was busy. Squire Moses did most of the talking, and it was some time before I found out who was with him. But after a while the other man spoke, and I knew it was Ethan."

"Ethan Wormbury you mean?" asked Leopold.

"Yes my uncle Ethan, that keeps the Island Hotel. Your father's new house, Le, has scared him half out of his wits. I can't remember half I heard them say; but the substance of it was, that if your father don't pay his interest money on the very first day of July, the old man means to foreclose the mortgage just as quick as the law will let him. That's the upshot of all that was said."

"That's too bad!" exclaimed Leopold, indignantly.

"Just what I thought, and that's the reason why I wanted to tell you. Squire Moses said your father's furniture was mortgaged, and that would have to be sold too. The plan of the old hunks is to get the hotel, and put Ethan into it as landlord. If he can't do it this summer, he means to do it as soon as he can. He thought if he got the house, he could buy the furniture, and set Ethan up by the middle of July, or the first of August."

"It's a mean trick," muttered Leopold.

"That's what I say; but it isn't any meaner than a thousand other things the old man does. Only think of his turning his son's wife, with three children, out of house and home! But you can tell your father all about it, Le, and perhaps he may be able to get an anchor out to windward," continued Stumpy, whose sympathy for his friend was hardly less than his fear for his mother's future.

"I'm much obliged to you for telling me, Stumpy; but I don't know that my father will be able to do anything to help himself, desperate as the case is," added Leopold.

"I hope he will."

"So do I but I have my doubts. Father said to-day that he had six calls for every dollar he got. He has mortgaged everything, so that he can't raise anything more. He said there was money enough in the large cities; that they had picked up after the first blow of the war, and some men were getting rich faster than ever; but down here everything was at a stand-still; no business, and no money. The rich folks will come down to the hotel by and by; and father says a good week, with the Sea Cliff House full, would set him all right; but he can't expect to do anything more than pay expenses, and hardly that, till the middle of July."

"It's a hard case, and Squire Moses knows it. He said if he couldn't get the house on the first of July payment, he was afraid he should not be able to get it at all for Ethan. I hope your father will be able to do something."

"I hope so. If I could find any one who would give me a hundred and fifty dollars for this boat, I would sell her quick, and hand the money over to father. It would pay his interest, into thirty dollars, and perhaps he could raise the rest, though he says he has not had twenty dollars in his hand at one time for a month. I can't exactly see why it is that when men are making money hand over fist in some parts of the country, everything is so dead in Rockhaven. The quarries have all stopped working, and the fishermen have gone to the war," said Leopold, as the Rosabel reached her landing place near the hotel, where she was carefully moored; and the boys went on shore.

"By the way, Stumpy," continued the skipper, as they walked up the steep path towards the road, "you said I might be able to do something to help your mother out of her trouble. If I can, I'm sure I should be glad to do so."

"I don't know that I will say anything about it now. Your case is rather worse than mine, if anything, and you have enough to think of without bothering your head with my mother's troubles," replied Stumpy.

"Of course I can't raise any money to help her out; but if I can do anything else, nothing would please me more."

"If you have any friends, you ought to use them for your father."

"What do you mean by friends? I haven't any friends."

"Yes, you have; but I don't know that you have the cheek to call upon them. I suppose it will do no harm to tell you what I was thinking about, Le," added Stumpy, when they reached the road, and halted there. "Your boat is called the Rosabel. You gave her that name."

"Of course I did. What has that to do with this matter?" demanded Leopold, puzzled by the roundabout manner in which his friend approached his subject.

"You named the boat after somebody," continued Stumpy, with something like a chuckle in his tones.

"I named her after Miss Rosabel Hamilton, whose father has been one of the best customers of the hotel. Perhaps I had my weather eye open when I christened the sloop."

"Certainly you had," ejaculated Stumpy.

"But it was only to please the family, and induce them to stay longer at the hotel."

"Perhaps it was," added Stumpy, placing a wicked emphasis on the first word.

"O, I know it was!" protested Leopold.

"But I used to think you were rather sweet on Miss Rosabel, when I was in the boat with you."

"Nonsense, Stumpy!" replied Leopold; and if there had been light enough, perhaps his companion might have distinguished a slight blush upon his brown face. "I never thought of such a thing. Why, her father has been a member of Congress, and they say he is worth millions."

"I don't care anything about Congress or the millions; you would have jumped overboard and drowned yourself for the girl at any minute."

"Perhaps I would; I don't know. She's a nice girl," mused Leopold.

"That's not all, either."

"Well, what else?"

"If Rosabel didn't like you better than she did the town pump, I don't guess any more," chuckled Stumpy.

"I think she did like me, just as she would any fellow that did his best to make her comfortable and happy."

"More than that."

"I don't believe it. But what has all this to do with your mother's case, or my father's?"

"I won't mix things any longer. Her father is as rich as mud. I was going to ask you if you wouldn't write to Mr. Hamilton, and ask him to take the mortgage on my mother's house."

Leopold did not like the idea, but he promised to consider it.

"If I were you, Le, I should mention my father's case to him," added Stumpy.

But Leopold did not like this idea any better than the other; and they separated.



CHAPTER XI.

IN THE FOG.

Leopold parted with his friend opposite the Sea Cliff House. He entered the office, where his father was busy in conversation with one of the guests. Luckily the landlord, satisfied with the safety of his son, did not ask him where he had been; for his absence on the water was too common an event to excite any remark, and Leopold went to bed as soon as he had shown himself to his mother, and told her that the squall had not harmed him. It is one thing to go to bed, and quite another to sleep. Leopold was tired enough to need rest, yet his future action in regard to the hidden treasure did not allow him to do anything but think, think, think, till he heard the church clock strike twelve. That was the last he heard that night. But with all his thinking, his opinion was just the same as before. The money did not belong to him, and it did belong to somebody else. He could not escape these two conclusions, and whether his father failed or not, he could see no way by which he could honestly bring the twelve hundred dollars in gold to his aid.

Coming events pressed so heavily upon the minds of his father and Stumpy, that neither of them had questioned him very closely in regard to his business on the beach in the storm and the darkness. As he had thus far escaped without telling any direct lies, he decided to keep his own secret for the present; but he intended, the very next time he went to Rockland, to visit the owners of the Waldo, and inquire about the passenger who had perished in the wreck of the brig. Very likely this man had a wife and children, a father, or brothers and sisters, who needed this money. His wife and little children might at that moment be suffering for the want of it. It belonged to them, and they ought to have it. Even if his father failed, and lost all he had, Leopold felt that it would be better for him to do his whole duty. The secret was with himself alone, and there was no one to applaud his noble decision; nay, if he had told his friends and neighbors, and perhaps even his father, they would probably have laughed at him, called him a fool, declared that he was more nice than wise, and insisted that it was his duty to save the Sea Cliff House from the avaricious grasp of Squire Moses Wormbury.

In spite of his noble conclusion, he was still terribly worried about the financial troubles of his father. The Rosabel was well worth two hundred dollars, and she was almost the only piece of property in the family which was not covered by a mortgage. It was early in the season, when a boat is more salable than later in the year; and before he went to sleep, Leopold had decided to run over to Rockland the next day, if possible, and endeavor to find a purchaser for her, even at three fourths of her value. It would be a happy moment for him if he could put one hundred and fifty dollars into his father's hands, and thus enable him to make up his interest money. There must be some one in Rockland who wanted a boat, and who would be willing to pay him this price for so fast and stiff a craft as the Rosabel. With this pleasant anticipation in his mind, Leopold went to sleep.