Wolfert caught her eye one day fixed on him thus anxiously, and for a moment was roused from his golden reveries—­“Cheer up, my girl,” said he, exultingly, “why dost thou droop?—­thou shalt hold up thy head one day with the—­and the Schenaerhorns, the Van Hornes, and the Van Dams—­the patroon himself shall be glad to get thee for his son!”

Amy shook her head at this vain-glorious boast, and was more than ever in doubt of the soundness of the good man’s intellect.

In the meantime Wolfert went on digging, but the field was extensive, and as his dream had indicated no precise spot, he had to dig at random.  The winter set in before one-tenth of the scene of promise had been explored.  The ground became too frozen and the nights too cold for the labors of the spade.  No sooner, however, did the returning warmth of spring loosen the soil, and the small frogs begin to pipe in the meadows, but Wolfert resumed his labors with renovated zeal.  Still, however, the hours of industry were reversed.  Instead of working cheerily all day, planting and setting out his vegetables, he remained thoughtfully idle, until the shades of night summoned him to his secret labors.  In this way he continued to dig from night to night, and week to week, and month to month, but not a stiver did he find.  On the contrary, the more he digged the poorer he grew.  The rich soil of his garden was digged away, and the sand and gravel from beneath were thrown to the surface, until the whole field presented an aspect of sandy barrenness.

In the meantime the seasons gradually rolled on.  The little frogs that had piped in the meadows in early spring, croaked as bull-frogs in the brooks during the summer heats, and then sunk into silence.  The peach tree budded, blossomed, and bore its fruit.  The swallows and martins came, twittered about the roof, built their nests, reared their young, held their congress along the eaves, and then winged their flight in search of another spring.  The caterpillar spun its winding-sheet, dangled in it from the great buttonwood tree that shaded the house, turned into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of summer, and disappeared; and finally the leaves of the buttonwood tree turned yellow, then brown, then rustled one by one to the ground, and whirling about in little eddies of wind and dust, whispered that winter was at hand.

Wolfert gradually awoke from his dream of wealth as the year declined.  He had reared no crop to supply the wants of his household during the sterility of winter.  The season was long and severe, and for the first time the family was really straightened in its comforts.  By degrees a revulsion of thought took place in Wolfert’s mind, common to those whose golden dreams have been disturbed by pinching realities.  The idea gradually stole upon him that he should come to want.  He already considered himself one of the most unfortunate men in the province, having lost such an incalculable amount of undiscovered treasure, and now, when thousands of pounds had eluded his search, to be perplexed for shillings and pence was cruel in the extreme.