“It may not be worth a cent,” returned the woman; “for it will give everybody the rheumatism that stays a week in it—­but it is worth that to me, and more nor double that just now to him.  But I will not be hard with him,” continued she, rocking herself to and fro.  “Say twenty dollars, and I will turn out on Monday.”

“I dare say you will,” said Mr. —–­, “and who do you think would be fool enough to give you such an exorbitant sum for a ruined old shed like this?”

“Mind your own business, and make your own bargains,” returned the old woman, tartly.  “The devil himself could not deal with you, for I guess he would have the worst of it.  What do you say, sir?” and she fixed her keen eyes upon my husband, as if she would read his thoughts.  “Will you agree to my price?”

“It is a very high one, Mrs. R—–­; but as I cannot help myself, and you take advantage of that, I suppose I must give it.”

“’Tis a bargain,” cried the old crone, holding out her hard, bony hand.  “Come, cash down!”

“Not until you give me possession on Monday next; or you might serve me as your son has done.”

“Ha!” said the old woman, laughing and rubbing her hands together; “you begin to see daylight, do you?  In a few months, with the help of him,” pointing to Mr. —–­, “you will be able to go alone; but have a care of your teacher, for it’s no good that you will learn from him.  But will you really stand to your word, mister?” she added, in a coaxing tone, “if I go out on Monday?”

“To be sure I will; I never break my word.”

“Well, I guess you are not so clever as our people, for they only keep it as long as it suits them.  You have an honest look; I will trust you; but I will not trust him,” nodding to Mr. —–­, “he can buy and sell his word as fast as a horse can trot.  So on Monday I will turn out my traps.  I have lived here six-and-thirty years; ’tis a pretty place and it vexes me to leave it,” continued the poor creature, as a touch of natural feeling softened and agitated her world-hardened heart.  “There is not an acre in cultivation but I helped to clear it, nor a tree in yonder orchard but I held it while my poor man, who is dead and gone, planted it; and I have watched the trees bud from year to year, until their boughs overshadowed the hut, where all my children, but Joe, were born.  Yes, I came here young, and in my prime; and I must leave it in age and poverty.  My children and husband are dead, and their bones rest beneath the turf in the burying-ground on the side of the hill.  Of all that once gathered about my knees, Joe and his young ones alone remain.  And it is hard, very hard, that I must leave their graves to be turned by the plough of a stranger.”

I felt for the desolate old creature—­the tears rushed to my eyes; but there was no moisture in hers.  No rain from the heart could filter through that iron soil.

“Be assured, Mrs. R—–­,” said Moodie, “that the dead will be held sacred; the place will never be disturbed by me.”