In this strange world, made a
hopeless riddle to him, he might, if he had had a less intense nature,
have sat weaving, weaving- looking towards the end of his pattern,
or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and
everything else but his immediate sensations; but the money had come
to mark off his weaving into periods, and the money not only grew, but
it remained with him. He began to think it was conscious of him, as
his loom was, and he would on no account have exchanged those coins,
which had become his familiars, for other coins with unknown faces. He
handled them, he counted them, till their form and colour were like
the satisfaction of a thirst to him; but it was only in the night,
when his work was done, that he drew them out to enjoy their
companionship. He had taken up some bricks in his floor underneath his
loom, and here he had made a hole in which he set the iron pot that
contained his guineas and silver coins, covering the bricks with
sand whenever he replaced them. Not that the idea of being robbed
presented itself often or strongly to his mind: hoarding was common in
country districts in those days; there were old labourers in the
parish of Raveloe who were known to have their savings by them,
probably inside their flock beds; but their rustic neighbours,
though not all of them as honest as their ancestors in the days of
King Alfred, had not imaginations bold enough to lay a plan of
burglary.
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