Trina kept the surplus in a chamois-skin
sack she had made from an old chest protector. Just now, yielding to
an impulse which often seized her, she drew out the match-box and
the chamois sack, and emptying the contents on the bed, counted them
carefully. It came to one hundred and sixty-five dollars, all told. She
counted it and recounted it and made little piles of it, and rubbed the
gold pieces between the folds of her apron until they shone.
"Ah, yes, ten dollars is all I can afford to give Mac," said Trina,
"and even then, think of it, ten dollars--it will be four or five months
before I can save that again. But, dear old Mac, I know it would make
him feel glad, and perhaps," she added, suddenly taken with an idea,
"perhaps Mac will refuse to take it."
She took a ten-dollar piece from the heap and put the rest away. Then
she paused:
"No, not the gold piece," she said to herself. "It's too pretty. He can
have the silver." She made the change and counted out ten silver dollars
into her palm. But what a difference it made in the appearance and
weight of the little chamois bag! The bag was shrunken and withered,
long wrinkles appeared running downward from the draw-string.
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