The Misery of the Miser’s Hoard

The fire, from which we date our family history, seemed at the time it occurred the climax of a series of misfortunes that had been falling for five years upon our devoted heads. First, we lost a dear father. There was no money for us after the business was closed, and mamma thankfully accepted an offer of her Uncle Gordon’s to be his housekeeper. Uncle Gordon Crofts was a man nearly seventy, strong and vigorous, with a most ungovernable temper, miserly and suspicious. He lived in a wretched, tumble-down old house.

In January, Uncle Gordon was taken ill. In just one month, he died, leaving a brief will conferring all his property—the house included—upon our mother. But where was the property? We turned the house upside down, but not a coin rewarded our search. We struggled along, and then came the fire. It was a clear, starlight night in June when the flames swallowed everything we owned.

Then, as we stood utterly desolate and destitute, Brent Ellis, who had worked like a giant at the fire engines, said, 'Marry me, Meta, this hour, so that I may have a right to shelter all of you.' But we were numbed. Three days after, as we were picking through the cold ruins, my brother Freddie burst in: 'Come quick! We’ve found a big iron box under the chimney-place, in a hollow, bricked all around.' Within, we found Uncle Gordon’s hoarded treasures: bonds to the amount of $10,000, $120 in gold, a case of uncut gems, and private papers. Our troubles seemed at last to be over. Our new house, built upon the site of the old one, is now a roomy two-story cottage, and our housewarming was the wedding of Brent and Meta.