“You don’t understand, ma,” she said, with flushing cheeks.  “It is a promise.  Father must pay it.  He cannot ask to have it given back to him.”

But with all Draxy’s inflexibility of resolve, she could not help being disheartened.  She could not see how they were to live; the three rooms over the store could easily be fitted up into an endurable dwelling-place; but what was to supply the food which the farm had hitherto given them?  There was literally no way open for a man or a woman to earn money in that little farming village.  Each family took care of itself and hired no service, except in the short season of haying.  Draxy was an excellent seamstress, but she knew very well that the price of all the sewing hired in the village in a year would not keep them from starving.  The Store must be given up, because her father would have no money with which to buy goods.  In fact, for a long time, most of his purchases had been made by exchanging the spare produce of his farm at large stores in the neighboring towns.  Still Draxy never wavered, and because she did not waver Reuben did not die.  The farm was sold at auction, with the stock, the utensils, and all of the house-furniture which was not needed to make the store chambers habitable.  The buyer boasted in the village that he had not given more than two thirds of the real value of the place.  After Reuben’s debts were all paid, there remained just one thousand dollars to be put into the bank.

“Why, father!  That is a fortune,” said Draxy, when he told her.  “I did not suppose we should have anything, and it is glorious not to owe any man a cent.”

It was early in April when the Millers moved into the “store chambers.”  The buyer of their farm was a hard-hearted, penurious man, a deacon of the church in which Draxy had been baptized.  He had never been known to give a penny to any charity excepting Foreign Missions.  His wife and children had never received at his hands the smallest gift.  But even his heart was touched by Draxy’s cheerful acquiescence in the hard change, and her pathetic attempts to make the new home pleasant.  The next morning after Deacon White took possession, he called out over the fence to poor Reuben, who stood listlessly on the store steps, trying not to look across at the house which had been his.

“I say, Miller, that gal o’ your’n is what I call the right sort o’ woman, up an’ down.  I hain’t said much to her, but I’ve noticed that she set a heap by this garding; an’ I expect she’ll miss the flowers more’n anything; now my womenfolks they won’t have anythin’ to do with such truck; an’ if she’s a mind to take care on’t jest’s she used ter, I’m willin’; I guess we shall be the gainers on’t.”

“Thank you, Deacon White; Draxy’ll be very glad,” was all Reuben could reply.  Something in his tone touched the man’s flinty heart still more; and before he half knew what he was going to say, he had added,—­

“An’ there’s the vegetable part on’t, too, Miller.  I never was no hand to putter with garden sass.  If you’ll jest keep that up and go halves, fair and reg’lar, you’re welcome.”