"Is he badly off?" asked the young man. "I would not care to be as badly," said the crone. "I've seen men better off than he die like that," and she puffed out her breath. "But _he'll_ not die readily. Oh, no; he's one of the kind whose claws are sunk into life. He has cupboards and chests to anchor him to the world, has this gentleman; and, if all the tales you hear are true, they'll be rare, heavy bits of furniture, indeed." She chuckled and wagged her ancient head. "They'd be a fine sight for famished eyes, those two things," she said. "And I wish it were given to me to open them. Gold," she said. "And silver. Bags of it. Spanish and Dutch and British pieces, as broad as your hand. He was a sharp-nosed one for minted bits of metal, was old Bulfinch. Chests and cupboards stuffed with them. God save us! And, for all, here we have him, with yellow-jack pinched tight in his bowels." "And his sons brought him here, you say?" "They did; in a cart; and in the night. And they pitched him down by the door, and stayed hardly long enough for a word." "I'll lie in the garret, Nathaniel," persisted the old man. "I'll lie in the garret, where it's airy and cool. I'll be quiet, there, and the pain in my head will leave me." The hag chuckled gleefully. "What, my gentleman," she said, "would you be where you'd stop the brisk snapping of locks, the opening of drawers, the throwing back of chest-lids? Out on you for a spoil-sport! Some one else counts your money to-night," she said. "Your noble sons have the handling of your broad, fine, bright pieces. I can see them settling to it now like a pair of weasels." The clouded mind of the sick man sensed only a little of what she said. "Plenty of room in the chest," he muttered. "Oh, yes, plenty of room for more. The years and years it takes to gain a very little. The weary years." The old woman held a candle so that the light could fall on his face. "There will be no more years for you," she said. "Hours will tell your tale." She nodded toward Anthony. "And short hours, too."