“You are welcome, sir,” said the widow courteously.  “I am glad to see you.  I should hardly have known you.”

“I take that as a compliment.  I am a tramp no longer, but a respectable and, I may add, well-to-do citizen.  Now I have a favor to ask.”

“Name it, sir.”

“Place me, if convenient, where I can hear the interview between Mr. Davenport and yourself without myself being seen.”

Ben conducted Dinsmore into the kitchen opening out of the sitting room, and gave him a chair.

At five minute to twelve there was a knock at the outer door, and Ben admitted Squire Davenport.

“So you are home again, Benjamin,” said the squire.  “Had enough of the city?”

“I am taking a vacation.  I thought mother would need me to-day.”

“She will—­to help her move.”

“Step in, sir.”

Squire Davenport, with the air of a master, followed Ben into the sitting room.  Mrs. Barclay sat quietly at the table with her sewing in hand.

“Good-day, widow,” said the squire patronizingly.

He was rather surprised at her quiet, unruffled, demeanor.  He expected to find her tearful and sad.

“Good-day, Squire Davenport,” she said quietly.  “Is your family well?”

“Zounds! she takes it coolly,” thought the squire.

“Very well,” he said dryly.  “I suppose you know my business?”

“You come about the mortgage?”

“Yes; have you decided where to move?”

“My mother does not propose to move,” said Ben calmly.

“Oho! that’s your opinion, is it?  I apprehend it is not for you to say.”

“That’s where we differ.  We intend to stay.”

“Without consulting me, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are impudent, boy!” said the squire, waxing wrathful.  “I shall give you just three days to find another home, though I could force you to leave at once.”

“This house belongs to my mother.”

“You are mistaken.  It belongs to me.”

“When did you buy it?”

“You are talking foolishly.  I hold a mortgage for seven hundred dollars on the property, and you can’t pay it.  I am willing to cancel the mortgage and pay your mother three hundred dollars cash for the place.”

“It is worth a good deal more.”

“Who will pay more?” demanded the quire, throwing himself back in his chair.

“I will,” answered Ben.

“Ho, ho! that’s a good joke,” said the squire.  “Why, you are not worth five dollars in the world.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I am or not.  My mother won’t sell.”

“Then pay the mortgage,” said the squire angrily.

“I am prepared to do so.  Have you a release with you?”

Squire Davenport stared at Ben in amazement.

“Enough of this folly!” he said sternly.  I am not in the humor for jokes.”

“Squire Davenport, I am not joking.  I have here money enough to pay the mortgage,” and Ben drew from his pocket a thick roll of bills.