He did not realize that this relief from pain was only a sign that Nature had succumbed at last, and that Death had gained the victory. Tom hated to dispel the illusion, but it must be done. "Jacob," he said, slowly and sadly, "I have got something to tell you." "What is it?" said the old man, in alarm. "It is something that the doctor told me just now." "He--he didn't say I was going to die?" asked Jacob, agitated. "Yes; he said you could not live." A low and feeble wail burst from the old man's lips. "I can't die," he said. "I'm not ready. I'm only sixty-five. He--he may be mistaken. Don't you think I look better this morning?" "You look very sick." "I don't want to die," wailed the old man. "It's only a little while since I was a boy. Did--did he say how long I could live?" "He said you might live forty-eight hours." "Forty-eight hours--only two days--are you sure he said that?" "Yes, Jacob. I wish I could do anything to make you live longer." "You're a good boy, Tom. I--I'm afraid I haven't been a good friend to you." "Yes, you have, Jacob. We have always been good friends." "But I helped do you a great wrong. I hope you will forgive me." "I don't know what it is, but I will forgive you, Jacob." "Then, perhaps, Heaven will forgive me, too. I'll do all I can. I'll leave you all my money." Tom did not pay much regard to this promise, for he did not know that Jacob had any money beyond a few shillings, or possibly a few dollars. "Thank you, Jacob," he said, "but I can earn enough to pay my expenses very well. Don't trouble yourself about me." "There's no one else to leave it to," said the old man. "It isn't much, but you shall have it." Here he drew out, with trembling fingers, the key suspended to a piece of twine which, through all his sickness, he had carried around his neck. He held it in his hand a moment, and a spasm convulsed his pale features. To give it up seemed like parting with life itself. It was a final parting with his treasure, to which, small though it was, his heart clung even in this solemn moment. He held it, reluctant to give it up, though he knew now that he must. "Take this key, Tom," he said. "It is the key to my box of gold." "I didn't know you had a box of gold," said Tom, rather surprised. "It is not much--a hundred dollars. If I had lived longer, I might have got more." "A hundred dollars, Jacob? I did not think you were so rich." "It will never do me any good," said the old man, bitterly. "I was a fool to go out in the street that day. I might have lived to be as old as my father. He was seventy-five when he died." Tom would like to have comforted him, but he would give him no hope of life, and that was what the old man longed for. "Where is the box of money?" he asked, seeking to divert Jacob's mind, as well as to gain a necessary piece of information.