“It would be wicked to sell for that.”

“We must be content with what we can get.”

After supper the farmer took his hat, and walked slowly and soberly about the farm.  He felt that it was his farewell.  Till now it had been his.  To-morrow it would pass from his possession.

“It is hard,” he sighed, “but it can’t be helped.  At any rate, we won’t starve.”

There was a small house, with half an acre of land attached on the outskirts of the village, which he could get at a moderate rental.  He had inquired about it, and had made up his mind to secure it.

“But it is humble,” objected his wife.

“We must not be proud, wife,” he said.  We can make it look homelike with our furniture in it.”

“But what will you do for an income, Sterling?”

“I can work out by the day.  Perhaps the man who buys our farm—­I hear the squire has got a purchaser for it—­will employ me.”

“To work out by the day at your age, Sterling!” said his wife, indignantly.

“It will be hard, but if it is necessary I can do it.”

“But I want to help, Sterling.  I can get sewing to do.”

“No, no; I won’t consent to that.”

“Then I won’t consent to your working by the day.”

“Well, we won’t discuss it to-night.  We will let the future take care of itself.”

Just then the noise of wheels was heard, and a buggy stopped at the door.

“I do believe it’s Andy!” exclaimed Mrs. Grant, joyfully.

It was Andy.  A minute later, he was in the house.

“I am late,” he said.  “I lost the regular train, and had to get off at Stacy, six miles away; but I got a man from the stable to bring me over.”

“I am glad to see you, Andy,” said his mother.

“And so am I,” added Sterling Grant, “though it is a sad time.”

“Why a sad time, father?”

“The squire will foreclose to-morrow.”

“No, he won’t foreclose, father.  I will stop it.”

“But how can you prevent it, my son?”

“By paying the three thousand dollars, father.”

“Have you got the money?” asked his father, incredulously.

“Yes.”

“But how—?”

“Don’t ask me any questions, father.  Be satisfied with the knowledge that I have got it.”

“Heaven be praised!” said the farmer, fervently.

“I don’t think Squire Carter will say that.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CONCLUSION.

A little before twelve o’clock on the following day, Squire Carter rang the bell at the farmhouse door.  He was dressed with scrupulous neatness, and there was a smile of triumphant anticipation on his face.

Andy answered the bell.

“Walk in, squire,” he said.

“Ha!  So you are home, Andy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ahem!  Your father has been unfortunate.”