im in his plan, for there was no beating about the bush
now.

He acknowledged to himself that he meant to enter the cave, and if he
could only find the gold, which he was persuaded the occupant owned in
large quantities, to enrich himself at his expense.

His imagination was dazzled at the prospect. All his life he had been
working for a bare living. Probably, in his most prosperous year, not
over three hundred dollars in money had come into his hands as the
recompense of his toil.

Probably there are few people who do not, at some time, indulge in
dreams of sudden wealth. This time had come to John Trafton, and,
unfortunately, the temptation which came with it was so powerful as to
confuse his notions of right and wrong and almost to persuade him that
there was nothing very much out of the way in robbing the recluse of his
hoards.

"It don't do him any good," argued the fisherman, "while it would make
me comfortable for life. If I had ten thousand dollars, or even five,
I'd go away from here and live like a gentleman. My wife should be
rigged out from top to toe, and we'd jest settle down and take things
easy."

John Trafton was not very strict in his principles, and his conscience
did not trouble him much. Even if it had, the dazzling picture which his
fancy painted of an easy and luxurious future would probably have
carried the day.

It was only eight o'clock in the evening when the fisherman lifted the
latch of the outer door and entered the cabin.

His wife and Robert looked up in surprise, for it was about two hours
earlier than he generally made his appearance.

Another surprise--his gait and general appearance showed that he was
quite sober. This was gratifying, even if it was the result of his
credit being exhausted.

During the preceding week it may be mentioned that he had worked more
steadily than usual, having made several trips in his boat, and had thus
been enabled to pay something on his score at the tavern.

John Trafton sat down before the fire.

His wife was mending stockings by the light of a candle which burned on
the table at her side and Robert was absorbed by the fascinating pages
of Scott's "Rob Roy."

A side glance showed the fisherman how his nephew was employed, and,
rightly judging where the book came from, he seized upon it as likely to
lead to the questions he wanted to ask.

"What book have you got there, Bob?" he inquired.

"It Is a story by Sir Walter Scott, uncle."