CHAPTER IV

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_THE TREASURE-SEEKERS._

I HAD only one serious trouble in school, and that trouble's name was Sarah Millar. I cannot even now explain the influence she had over me. She was not handsome or specially bright, and certainly she was not amiable. I cannot say I ever liked her, and at times I almost hated her, yet I really think she led me into all the serious scrapes in which I was ever involved before I was nine years old. I don't think she cared a pin for me personally. I believe she took that way to annoy Jeanne, whom she hated because she said Jeanne "felt above her."

One of these scrapes I specially remember, because it was the means of breaking off my intercourse with Sarah. It came about in this way. One day late in the fall my father and mother went away on a visit to some cousins in Lanesborough, taking with them Jeanne and Ruth, but leaving my brothers and myself at home under the care of Rose. They were to be gone several days, and mother enjoined me to be very good, to go to school every day, and mind what Rose told me; promising if she heard a good account of me on her return to bring me something pretty from my cousin's store in Lanesborough.

But I did not feel at all like being good. I was vexed at being left at home, and thought myself hardly treated. True, I had my mother's promise that I should go next time she went anywhere, and I knew that mother's promises were as sure as any human thing can be; but who knew when "next time" would come? Perhaps not in all winter. It was with a very ill-used feeling that I saw my friends depart on their journey and obeyed the somewhat imperative summons of Rose:

"Don't stand there in the cold, honey, without nothing on your head. Come in and get ready for school."

"I don't want to go to school alone," I answered, sulkily enough; "I'm going to stay at home till mother comes back—or to-day, at any rate," I added, reflecting that I might, after all find staying at home rather tiresome.

"You ain't going to stay to home to-day nor no other day," was the decided reply. "Your mother told me you was to go regular every day just the same as if she was at home. So you just put all such nonsense out of your head. Go and brush your hair and lace up your boots real nice, and I'll put up a first-rate dinner for you. I baked a little pumpkin pie yesterday just on purpose, and you shall have the piece of loaf-cake that was left last night. Come, now; better be stirring before I come there."

Moved by this judicious mixture of sweet and acid arguments, I did really go and get ready for school, relenting somewhat from my sulkiness when I discovered by peeping into my basket that Rose had more than fulfilled her promise with regard to my dinner. During my long and lonely walk, however,—for Ezra and Tom had, as usual, gone off without concerning themselves about me,—the rebellious thoughts again came uppermost, and I was trudging along in a very discontented state, when I was joined by Sarah Millar.

"Seems to me you look dreadful discontented and out of sorts," was her salutation. "What's the matter?" Then, without waiting for an answer, "Pa saw your folks driving up toward Pittsfield this morning, and I supposed, of course, that you'd be along. Why didn't you go?"

"Mother said I should go next time," I answered, not very directly. "It was Jeanne's turn this morning."

"Oh!" said Sarah, in a peculiar tone. "It generally is 'Jeanne's turn,' isn't it?"

I had never thought of it in that way, but now that I was reminded of the circumstance it did seem to me that "Jeanne's turn" had come pretty often lately.

"I'm sure you are dreadful good to think so much of that French girl as you do," pursued Sarah, in whose vocabulary the word "dreadful" answered the same purposes that are now subserved by "awful." "I know 'I' shouldn't like to have a strange girl coming in and taking my place with my father and mother. Only for her you would be the eldest daughter, wouldn't you?"

It had never occurred to me that it was any hardship "not" to be the eldest daughter, but I immediately began to think of it in that light; which was no doubt just what Sarah intended, for she was a born mischief-maker.

"But never mind that now," said she. "What are you going to do while they are away?"

"I'm sure I don't know," I answered, in a melancholy tone. And then, recollecting myself and brightening up a little, "Only, Rose says she will begin to teach me to spin; and Jenny Hyde and I mean to make a new play-house."

"Dear me! I should think you'd be ashamed!" said Sarah, contemptuously—"A great girl like you to be making play-houses and rag-babies with Jenny Hyde! And I would not be in a hurry to learn to spin, either. Once you know how, they will keep you at it all the while, and you won't get any time to play at all. I'll tell you what to do: come home with me after school and stay all night."

"Rose won't let me," I answered.

"Pshaw! Who's Rose, I should like to know, that you should mind her? I guess I wouldn't be ordered by an old woman like Rose."

"Mother wouldn't let me if she were at home," said I, abandoning Rose. "She never does let me go home with any of the girls except Jenny Hyde."

"Oh yes, your folks think a great deal of Jenny Hyde. Guess, if your mother knew how Mrs. Hyde talked about her—But never mind that. Anyhow, your mother isn't at home, and she won't know it. Come, Olly; come home and stay with me, and we will have such fun."

"Well, I'll ask Miss Tempy," said I, yielding more and more.

"Ask Miss Tempy! Olive Corbet, I do think you are too silly for anything! Of course Miss Tempy won't let you go. She hates me like poison because my folks are poor and live on the mountain. But never mind! Just wait a little," said Sarah, nodding her head and compressing her lips—"just wait a while, and then see who'll have their silk dresses, and gold watches all set with diamonds, and gold finger-rings and ear-rings. She won't be so proud of her old silver watch then. Why, I wouldn't speak to her after that—not if she was to go down on her knees to me."

"After what?" I asked, very much interested, but unable to picture to myself such an event as Miss Tempy's going down on her knees to Sarah Millar.

"Never mind. It's a great secret, but perhaps I'll tell you if you'll go home with me. Come, say you will, and show that you are not afraid of an old black woman, and that you can have some good times as well as that Jeanne Dupont."

All day long as she had opportunity Sarah plied her arts of persuasion, and at last I yielded. My brothers had never taken any care as to my comings and goings, and it happened that Jenny Hyde, with whom I usually walked home, was not at school that day; so, as seems so often to happen with young transgressors, every hindrance was taken out of my way. Except, indeed, my own misgivings. These grew stronger and stronger at every step which I made away from home and in the direction of Beartown Mountain, at the side of which Sarah Millar's father lived.

It was a pretty long walk, and I was not very strong, and lagged behind in a way which caused Sarah to speak sharply to me more than once. The last time this happened I took a sudden resolution:

"I am not going any farther, Sarah; I have changed my mind. I remember something I want to do at home."

I expected Sarah would begin to urge me, and was very much surprised when she answered, coolly,—

"All right. I'm sure I don't care if you are not afraid. 'I' am in a hurry to get home before dark, and there isn't any time to spare, either. However, you had better hurry, and 'perhaps' you won't see any."

"Any what?" I asked, conscious of a certain chilliness at her words, for I was by no means distinguished for courage.

"Father heard one on the mountain last night," continued Sarah; "but maybe it won't come down—unless a storm should come up," she added, looking at the clouds, which did seem rather threatening.

"Heard what?" I asked, impatiently.

"Oh, nothing much—only a painter, that's all."

Now, painters, or panthers, were the most terrible beasts of which I had any knowledge. Many tales were told of their courage, ferocity, and cunning, and we children dreaded them with much the same kind of feeling that I suppose German children entertain toward the wehr-wolves, considering them as a kind of supernatural monsters.

"Won't you go part of the way with me?" I asked, feeling my heart sink within me at the prospect of the long, lonely walk and the painter, who might be even then lying in wait for me.

"Not I, indeed!" returned Sarah, beginning to walk on very fast. "Good-night, Olive. I hope there won't anything catch you—I 'hope' there won't."

I shall never forget how utterly despairing was the feeling that came over me there by the road-side in that lonely place under the shadow of the wild mountain, deserted as I seemed to be by all the world, even by my temptress herself. I sat down on a stone and began to cry bitterly.

"Oh, come! Don't sit there and cry," said Sarah, returning to my side. "Come along, and we'll be at our house long before dark. It is only a little farther—just past that great hollow tree where they killed the bear when I was a little girl. Come, make up your mind quick," she added, impatiently.

There seemed to be nothing left but to go on as I had begun. I arose and walked with Sarah up the road, which began now rapidly to ascend, and we soon reached her father's house. It was a low, unpainted structure, standing on the edge of a deep ravine which indented the mountain side, and through which ran a small stream. This stream was usually only a trickling, purling brook; but when swelled by rain or snow, it often became a noisy, roaring torrent.

The house consisted of only two rooms below and a garret above, and was more rudely finished than any I had ever seen at that time, the ceiling being only the rough boards which formed the floor of the garret, and all the furniture and wood-work being of the rudest description. There was no mantel-piece to the chimney, which seemed now and then to draw the wrong way, and sent great puffs of smoke out into the room. An old woman, whom I took to be Sarah's mother, but who I found out was her grandmother, sat in the chimney-corner smoking, and there were two grown-up girls in the room, one of whom was spinning and the other preparing supper.

"Now, Sally, what in the world have you brought that young one here for?" was the salutation of the elder sister, whose name I found was Melinda. Then, turning to me, with more kindness in her tone, "And how did you happen to come, child? I don't believe your mother knew it."

"Suppose she didn't?" said Sarah, pertly. "I guess my folks are as good as hers any day. Come, Olive, take off your bonnet and make yourself at home. Let's go up stairs."

Up stairs we went; but as to making myself at home, it was wholly out of my power. Though it was well on in October, the weather was sultry and close, and the garret was oppressively hot, the air therein being rendered more stifling still by the odour of various herbs hanging up to dry, and by the smell of tobacco ascending from the regions below.

"My! How hot!" said Sarah, going to the window. "Come here, Olive, and look out."

I obeyed, and started back in surprise and some alarm. The house stood on the very edge of the ravine I have mentioned, which was here very deep, precipitous, and dark, with hemlocks and other evergreens growing in the bottom below. As we looked out a screech-owl not far away set up his horrid, quavering scream, more like the noise made by a woman in a fit than anything else I can think of. I started back in alarm.

"You needn't be scared," said Sarah; "he won't hurt you. He has been here ever since we have."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Won't you never, never tell as long as you live and breathe?" asked Sarah, solemnly.

I gave the required promise.

"Well, father says, but you must be sure not to tell, that that bird—it's an owl—is a money-watcher, and not a real owl at all."

"'A money-watcher'!" I repeated. "What is that?"

"Why, a money-watcher—a thing that stays round where treasure is buried to watch it and scare folks away. Just as soon as father heard that thing, he guessed it was a money-watcher, and he went to somebody that knows about such things, and he said there was a great deal of gold and jewels buried somewhere in this ravine, and if any one should look for it in the right time and the right way, he would get every bit of it. And he told father that there were great chests full of money and pearls diamonds and great bowls and cups of gold and silver. So then we'll see who'll have the silks and satins," concluded Sarah, in a tone of triumph.

"But he hasn't found the treasure yet, and perhaps he won't," said I.

"Oh yes, he will. The wise man said he might fail a good many times, but he would come nearer every time; and so he has. But he can only try at a particular time of the moon and when everything is right."

"Suppose somebody finds the treasure before your father?" said I.

"Then father 'll kill him; or if he don't, I will," said Sarah, with sudden fierceness. And then, with a curious alteration in her tone, "Sometimes I've wished pa hadn't known anything about the treasure, because then he might have had a farm or learned a trade, and we could have lived in a nice house and had things decent. But then, when I think of the treasure, I don't care. Melinda don't believe in it at all, and says she don't expect ever to have any money but what she works for, but Malviny and granny and I, we believe in it. But mind, now, you don't ever tell. If you do, something dreadful will happen to you."

The conversation was interrupted by a call to supper, and we went down stairs. My mother was an unusually skilful house-keeper even for New England, and always took special pains to have her table neat and pleasant as well as abundant; but it may be guessed that the Millars were not so particular. There was no table-cloth, and the table itself was by no means clean, while the dishes were set on anyhow. There was nothing for supper save some very black rye-bread and very white and soft butter, till Malvina, placed before me a little cup of milk. But the table was not what surprised me most. In all my life I had never seen any one sit down to eat without first asking a blessing, and I naturally waited for the same thing to be done here.

"Come, child, sit down," said Sarah. "What are you waiting for?"

"For the blessing," said I, simply.

Malvina and Sarah first stared and then burst out laughing. Melinda coloured up to her eyes.

"Do stop your fool's laughing," said she, angrily, to the others; then, turning to me, "Come, child, sit down, and never mind them. 'You' have been brought up with Christian folks, but we ain't of that kind here. We don't have any religion in this house."

"Religion!" said Malvina, with a sneer. "What good has religion done us, I should like to know?"

"What good has the other thing done us? Perhaps you can tell," retorted Melinda, turning upon her sharply. "There, child! Eat your supper if you can find anything to eat. Here! I'll get you some maple sugar. I expect you ain't used to such butter as ours."

I felt that Melinda meant to be kind, and I tried to eat, but every morsel seemed to choke me. None of the men of the family were present, and I heard Malvina tell the old woman that "dad" had gone "over the mountain."

Every moment increased my home-sickness and added to the stings of my conscience. I pictured to myself Rose's alarm at my absence and her sending the boys out to look for me. I thought of my mother and Jeanne, and how they would suppose me safe in my own bed. I remembered how I had promised my mother to be good and mind Rose and say my prayers the same as if she were at home. To add to my distress, the wind began to rise and the thunder to growl among the hills.

Malvina went to the door and looked out.

"There's going to be an awful storm," she said, in an under-tone, to Sarah, adding, not so low but what I heard her, "You had better go to bed before it comes on. The young one will be scared to death, especially if dad comes home."

This dark hint was the drop which made the cup overflow. I burst into a flood of tears and cried with all my might.

"Oh, I want to go home, I want to go home!" I sobbed, and almost screamed. "I won't stay here! I want to go home to Rose! Oh, mother, mother!"

"Hush your noise, you little fool!" said Malvina, sharply. "Sarah, what did you bring her for? You might have known how it would be."

"Well, there! You needn't scold her," said Melinda. "Hush, hush, Olly! Nobody sha'n't hurt you. Go to bed, and you shall go home first thing in the morning. I would take you to-night, only it's going to rain in a minute."

"Take her to-night, indeed!" said Malvina. "Hush up, Olly, or I'll set the dog on you!"

"Set the dog on you, set the dog on you!" cried the old woman, in a cracked, croaking voice. "That's the way: set the dogs on 'em."

I do not think the poor thing meant me any harm—it was only a way she had in her dotage of repeating any word which happened to strike her ear—but I had not the sense to understand the matter then. I hushed my sobs and allowed Sarah to lead me to the loft where we had been before, and to unfasten my dress. When I was ready for bed, I knelt down to say my prayers—an action which produced a new burst of laughter from Sarah:

"Oh what a nice little girl! Oh what a nice little mammy-girl! Now run home and tell mummy how good she is, do!"

Timid and yielding as I was, I could fight when pushed to the wall, and Sarah's contemptuous allusion to my mother gave me the needed push. My pride and my love for my mother were both aroused at once.

"Sarah Millar, I shall say my prayers for all you," said I, looking up. "You are an awful wicked, bad girl; and if you say another word, I'll run all the way home, storm or no storm. I might just as well be caught by painters as stay with such a girl as you are. I won't speak to you again to-night—so!"

With that I put my head down and finished my prayers, certainly in no very Christian frame of mind, nor, though Sarah changed her tone and began to coax me, would I open my lips again. Tired at last, she turned over and went to sleep, but I could not sleep. The storm was in full force by this time. The lightning flashed brightly into the uncurtained window and gave me momentary glimpses of the tossing trees on the other side of the ravine. The thunder sounded louder than any I had ever heard, and the wind groaned among the trees in an appalling manner, while the brook, swelled by the pouring rain, presently added its hoarse voice to the other noises. The old house rocked and creaked, and in one of the flashes of lightning I distinctly saw a great rat run along the floor. I was almost as much afraid of rats as of panthers, and was about to spring out of bed, when I remembered that I might step on the monster, which would, I thought, kill me entirely.

But by degrees my thoughts took another turn, and from considering my danger I began to reflect how very naughty I had been, how ungrateful to Rose, who had done so much for me all my life long, how disobedient to mother, whom I had promised to be good, and to Miss Tempy, who had expressly enjoined me to go straight home from school. And I had answered, "Yes, ma'am," as if I meant to do it, when all the time I meant no such thing. Oh how mean and little and wicked did I appear in my own eyes! And all for the sake of a girl whom I did not even like.

I had been well instructed in religion, and I knew that I had disobeyed not only my earthly parents, but also my heavenly Father. Only for that, I thought, I would ask him to take care of me and bring me safe home. And then I remembered a verse I had read at prayers that very morning—that morning which now seemed so long ago:

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins."

I was not quite certain that those were the very words, but that was the sense, I was sure. He could hear me as much in one place as in another—as much in this miserable garret as if I were in my own neat, pretty little room at home.

A kind of solemn and quieting awe seemed to fill upon me as I remembered, and for the first time in my little life "realized," the presence of my heavenly Father. My sobs ceased, and in such words as I could command I confessed what I had done and asked for forgiveness; and then, quieted by my devotions and feeling quite sure that my prayer was heard—for did not mother and the Bible both say so?—I lay down and fell asleep, but not before I had made two resolutions—one that I would never run away again, the other that I would set out for home the minute I waked in the morning instead of waiting and going to school with Sarah, as we had planned the night before.

My bed was far from comfortable, and I waked with the first gleam of daylight. Rising softly without waking Sarah, I dressed myself with all speed, and stepped quietly down the stairs, not without some misgiving lest I should be unable to get out or should encounter the men of the family; for from some gruff voices which I had heard once in the night, I concluded that "dad," as the girls called him, had returned. But timid as I was, I sometimes had spasms, as it were, of courage and resolution, in which I think I would have faced a lion, or even a rat, without the slightest hesitation. When I reached the kitchen, however, there was no one to be seen, and the door—oh joyful sight!—was half open.

Never did I pass over any ground so quickly as over that first mile of the road that led to the village. Then my strength began to flag, and I sat down to rest. I knew where I was now, and calculated that by skirting the edge of John Schneider's wood-lot and crossing his and our pasture I should save a long distance and reach home without meeting any one. So I climbed the rough stone wall without any trouble, and struck into a path that I knew right well, for I had often passed over it on berrying and flower-hunting excursions.

I had not gone far before I found I had underrated the difficulties of my way. The wood-path was narrow and almost overgrown with blackberry and raspberry bushes, which caught my clothes at every step, and were, besides, dripping with wet. The rain had swollen two or three little brooks which could usually be crossed by a jump, so that there was nothing for it but to take off my shoes and stockings and pass over more than ankle deep in water, and the grass was so drenched that my whole progress was more like wading than walking. In the state in which I then found myself, however, I think I should have been almost as ready to face fire as I was to encounter water; and though I was ready to drop from fatigue and hunger—for I had really eaten hardly a mouthful since noon the day before—I travelled on without halting a moment till I entered our back yard and walked directly up to Rose, who was just preparing to set out in search of me.

"Oh, Rose," I exclaimed, clasping my arms round her from behind—"oh, Rose, I've been the worst girl that ever was!" And here I broke down and fell into a fit of hysterical crying.

Rose wasted no words. She first caught me up in her arms and kissed me. Being made aware by this act how wet I was, she carried me into my own bed-room, and in less time, I believe, than the operation ever was performed before or since she had stripped me of my clothes, endued me with a warm flannel night-gown, and deposited me in bed. Then at last her feelings found expression.

"Bless de Lord!" she exclaimed. "You naughty, wicked, blessed child! I never was so glad to see anybody! I'se a great mind to give you a good whipping as ever I had to eat; and I don't s'pose you've had a mouthful of breakfast, either."

"I don't want any breakfast," said I; and I really thought so.

"Don't talk to me, child," was the reply.

And Rose bustled out, to return presently with a great cup of hot tea—a luxury usually allowed only on great occasions—and a piece of toasted bread.

"There! Drink your tea hot. I 'spect you've got your very death of cold. Such a night as I've had—all alone in the house, with the dreadfullest storm I ever did see, and not a soul to send anywhere."

"Why, where were the boys?" I asked.

"Oh, they went over to their cousin Lem's after school about the hogs, and it rained so I 'spect Lem would have 'em stay. I asked Symantha Hedges, and she said she see you a-going home with Sally Millar, and that Sally said she meant to get you away down there just to spite me, for she hates me like poison because I told Miss Tempy of some of her pranks. So I knew pretty well where you was. But how did I know what would happen? None of them Millars is any better than they should be—I guess Melindy is the best of the lot—and every one says the old man was a Tory in the war and helped murder the folks at Wyoming, besides being a regular sheep-stealer, and worse."

"Melinda was real good to me," said I; "but I'll never speak to Sarah again as long as I live. It was all her fault."

"I don't see that," answered Rose. "If you hadn't been so silly as to go with her, I don't see what she could have done to you. But what do you think your ma will say?"

"Oh, Rose, don't tell her—please don't tell her, will you?" I pleaded. "I won't do another single naughty thing while she is gone if only you won't tell her about this. Now, promise you won't."

"I sha'n't promise that I won't, nor that I will," said Rose; "but just tell me one thing, Olly: what do you mean to say when your ma asks you whether you have been a good girl?"

I had no answer ready for this question, and I remained silent. Rose had unusual tact for a person in her position. She did not press me for a reply, but left me to work out the problem by myself; bidding me go to sleep, for I must not think of going to school that day. This of itself was no small punishment, for I never willingly missed a day at school; but I was too tired to argue the matter, and I soon fell asleep, to awake with aching limbs and with a sore throat and every indication of a violent cold, which grew worse so rapidly that Rose thought it necessary to send for the doctor.

Doctor Partrige was a tall, large man who always wore knee-breeches and buckles, a dignified wig, and a pair of large silver-framed glasses. My mina was somewhat divided at the prospect of seeing him; for though I felt it was a dignified distinction to have the doctor all to myself; I did not know what he might do, especially if he should hear that my illness had been brought on by my own naughtiness. The doctor was very lenient, however. He told Rose to rub my throat well with oil and hartshorn, give me a bowl of hot catnip tea, and keep me in bed for two or three days; and he presented me at parting with a large piece of liquorice—a confection which he always carried in his pockets for the benefit of his small patients.

Rose was rather affronted.

"Worth while sending for the doctor!" she said, after Doctor Partrige had gone. "Guess I could have give you a bowl of catnip without any of his help. He might at least have left you some powders."

The catnip tea and the other applications seemed to answer the purpose, however, and in two or three days I was up and about, though teased with a hard cough which Rose prophesied would turn out to be whooping-cough.

My mother went away on Thursday and returned on Monday, and all that time the question was never out of my mind, "What shall I say when she asks me whether I have been a good girl?" But the problem was solved in an unexpected way. She did not ask me. Calling me into her bed-room, she said, with more than her usual kindness, if that were possible,—

"I am sure my little Olive has tried to be good and to please mother, and so I have brought her something very pretty."

So saying, she opened her basket and put into my hands a long blue paper box, in itself a treasure in those days. With trembling fingers I raised the lid. Oh, wonder of wonders! There lay a most beautiful doll—no home manufacture, but a real Boston doll, with blue eyes and black hair and a gilt comb, dressed, too, in the height of the fashion, in a narrow-skirted, short-waisted gown, and with a string of real beads round her neck.

The sight of this inestimable treasure, such as I had hardly dared hope ever to possess, answered my mental questions at once. I dropped the box on the bed; and falling on my knees and burying my head in mother's lap, I burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed out my confession without making any attempt to extenuate my fault by blaming Sarah.

Much as I had always loved my mother, I do not think I ever felt such a kind of adoration for her as I did that afternoon. She was so kind and forgiving, while she pointed out to me the greatness of my fault and the seriousness of its consequences, that I am sure I felt twenty times more penitent than I should have done if she had punished me ever so severely; and when she told me at the end that she should not take the doll away from me—that I might keep it to help me remember all she had said to me—I was overwhelmed with shame and confusion. I took my treasure to my room. I examined its beautiful clothes, which mother told me she had made herself on the very evening that I was running away with Sarah Millar, and I resolved, with new tears and a prayer which I am sure was quite sincere, that I would never grieve or disobey mother again. That doll always possessed a peculiar sacredness to me above all my other toys, and was destined to play a somewhat, important

## part in my history. I kept it for many years, and lost it in a way

which I shall describe hereafter.

Rose's prediction concerning the whooping-cough turned out to be correct. Ruth and I both had it—Ruth lightly and I severely, probably from the cold I had taken at the beginning of the disorder. Be that as it may, I was very unwell all winter, so that going to school was out of the question.

In the course of this winter the Millars vanished from their house on Beartown Mountain, nobody knew how or where. Probably they moved westward, as so many were doing at that time. I used to think of them many a time, and wonder whether they had found the treasure and gone to some distant city to enjoy it, and I used to try to imagine how Sarah and Malvina would look dressed in satin, with rings on their fingers, and riding in a fine coach like that of old Madam Childs in Pittsfield. I now think it more likely that some of the doings of the old man had brought him within the grasp of the law, and that he found it convenient to disappear. I suppose such characters are even now to be found in New England, and in my time it was not uncommon for persons even of considerable education to waste all their substance in the pursuit of hidden treasures supposed to have been buried by Captain Kidd or some other noted pirate.

##