Altogether
there were twenty twenty-dollar gold pieces.
"Oh-h, you beauties!" murmured Trina, running her palms over them,
fairly quivering with pleasure. "You beauties! IS there anything
prettier than a twenty-dollar gold piece? You dear, dear money! Oh,
don't I LOVE you! Mine, mine, mine--all of you mine."
She laid them out in a row on the ledge of the table, or arranged them
in patterns--triangles, circles, and squares--or built them all up into
a pyramid which she afterward overthrew for the sake of hearing the
delicious clink of the pieces tumbling against each other. Then at last
she put them away in the brass match-box and chamois bag, delighted
beyond words that they were once more full and heavy.
Then, a few days after, the thought of the money still remaining in
Uncle Oelbermann's keeping returned to her. It was hers, all hers--all
that four thousand six hundred. She could have as much of it or as
little of it as she chose. She only had to ask. For a week Trina
resisted, knowing very well that taking from her capital was
proportionately reducing her monthly income. Then at last she yielded.
"Just to make it an even five hundred, anyhow," she told herself.
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