For half of that night she sat up playing with her money, counting it and recounting it, polishing the duller pieces until they shone.

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.