“Goin’ on twelve, sir,” gasped Jerome.

“Only four years older than Lucina.  Good Lord!”

The Squire’s grasp tightened tenderly.  The boy did not struggle longer, but looked up with a wonder of comprehensiveness in the bearded face bent kindly over his.  “He looks at me the way father use to,” thought Jerome.

“What made you come to me, my boy?” asked the Squire, presently.  “Did you think I could pay the mortgage for you?”

Then Jerome colored furiously and threw up his head.  “No, sir,” said he, proudly.

“Why, then?”

“I came because you are a justice of the peace, and know what law is, and—­”

“And what?”

“I’ve always heard you were pleasanter-spoken than he was.”

The Squire laughed.  “Pleasant words are cheap coin,” said he.  “I wish I had something better for your sake, child.  Now let me see what it is you propose.  That wood-lot of your father’s, you say, Doctor Prescott has offered three hundred dollars for.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Squire whistled.  “Didn’t your father think it was worth more than that?”

“Yes, sir, but he didn’t think he could get any more.  He said—­”

“What did he say?”

“He said that a poor seller was the slave of a rich buyer; but I think—­” Jerome hesitated.  He was not used yet to expressing his independent thought.

“Go on,” said the Squire.

“I think it works both ways, and the poor man is the slave either way, whether he buys or sells,” said the boy, half defiantly, half timidly.

“I guess you’re about right,” said the Squire, looking at him curiously.  “Ever hear your uncle Ozias Lamb say anything like that?”

“No, sir.”

“Thought it yourself, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let’s get to business now,” said the Squire.  “What you want is this, if I understand it.  You want Doctor Prescott to buy that wood-lot of your father’s for three hundred dollars, or whatever over that sum he will agree to, and you don’t want him to pay you money down, but give you his note for it, with interest at six per cent., for as long a term as he will.  You did not say give you a note, because you did not know about it, but that is what you want.”

Jerome nodded soberly.  “I know father paid interest at six per cent., and it was sixty dollars a year, and I know it would be eighteen dollars if it was three hundred dollars instead of a thousand.  I figured it out on my slate,” he said.

“You are right,” said the Squire, gravely.  “Now you think that will bring your interest down to forty-two dollars a year, and maybe you can manage that; and if you cannot, you think that Doctor Prescott will pay you cash down for the wood-lot?”

The boy seemed to be engaged in an arithmetical calculation.  He bent his brows, and his lips moved.  “That would be over seven years’ interest money, at forty-two dollars a year, anyway,” he said at length, looking at the Squire with shrewdly innocent eyes.