“I never shall, Squire Davenport.  When the time comes you can foreclose, if you like, but it will never be done with my consent.”

“Ahem!  Your consent will not be required.”

“And let me tell you, Squire Davenport, if you do this wicked thing, it won’t benefit you in the end.”

Squire Davenport shrugged his shoulders.

“I am not at all surprised to find you so unreasonable, Mrs. Barclay,” he said.  “It’s the way with women.  I should be glad if you would come to look upon the matter in a different light; but I cannot sacrifice my own interests in any event.  The law is on my side.”

“The law may be on your side, but the law upholds a great deal that is oppressive and cruel.”

“A curious set of laws we should have if women made them,” said the squire.

“They would not bear so heavily upon the poor as they do now.”

“Well, I won’t stop to discuss the matter.  If you come to entertain different views about the house, send word by Ben, and we will arrange the details without delay.  Mr. Kirk is anxious to move his family as soon as possible, and would like to secure the house at once.”

“He will have to wait three months at least,” said Mrs. Barclay coldly.  “For that time, I believe the law protects me.”

“You are right there; but at the end of that tine you cannot expect as liberal terms as we are now prepared to offer you.”

“Liberal!” repeated the widow, in a meaning tone.

“So I regard it,” said the squire stiffly.  “Good-evening.”

An hour later Mrs. Barclay’s reflections were broken in upon by the ominous clang of the engine bell.  This is a sound which always excites alarm in a country village.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked anxiously, of a boy who was running by the house.

“It’s Crawford’s store!” was the startling reply.  “It’s blazin’ up like anything.  Guess it’ll have to go.”

“I hope Ben’ll keep out of danger,” thought Mrs. Barclay, as she hurriedly took her shawl and bonnet and started for the scene of excitement.

CHAPTER XIV BEN SHOWS HIMSELF A HERO

A fire in a country village, particularly where the building is a prominent one, is sure to attract a large part of the resident population.  Men, women, and children, as well as the hook and ladder company, hurried to the scene of conflagration.  Everybody felt a personal interest in Crawford’s.  It was the great emporium which provided all the families in the village with articles of prime and secondary necessity.  If Paris can be called France, then Crawford’s might be called Pentonville.

“Crawford’s on fire!” exclaimed old Captain Manson.  “Bless my soul!  It cannot be true.  Where’s my cane?”

“You don’t mean to say you’re goin’ to the fire, father?” asked his widowed daughter in surprise, for the captain had bowed beneath the weight of eighty-six winters, and rarely left the domestic hearth.