“Yes.  Three years ago it was bought for three thousand dollars, and seven hundred paid down in cash.  Only eight hundred dollars have since been paid on it; and as the time for which the mortgage was to remain has now expired, a foreclosure is about to take place.  By a little management, I am satisfied that I can get you the farm for the balance due on the mortgage.”

“That is, for fifteen hundred dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Is the farm worth that?  Will it be a good investment?”

“It is in the highest state of cultivation.  The owner has spent too much money upon it.  This, with the loss of his entire crop of wheat, rye, corn, oats, and hay, last year, has crippled him, and made it impossible to pay off the mortgage.”

“How came he to meet with this loss?”

“His barn was struck by lightning.”

“That was unfortunate.”

“The farm will command, at the lowest, two hundred and fifty dollars rent; and by forcing a sale just at this time, it can be had for fifteen hundred or two thousand dollars—­half its real value.”

“It would be a good investment at that.”

“Capital.  I would advise you to secure it.”

After making some brief inquiries as to its location, the quality of the land, the improvements, etc., Mr. Bolton told the broker, in whom he had great confidence, that he might buy the property for him, if he could obtain it for any thing below two thousand dollars.  This the broker said he could easily do, as the business of foreclosure was in his own hands.

In due time, Mr. Bolton was informed by his agent in the matter, that a sale under the mortgage had taken place, and that, by means of the little management proposed, he had succeeded in keeping away all competition in bidding.  The land, stock, farming implements, and all, had been knocked down at a price that just covered the encumbrance on the estate, and were the property of Mr. Bolton, at half their real value.

“That was a good speculation,” said the gray-headed money-lover, when his agent informed him of what he had been doing.

“First-rate,” replied the broker.  “The farm is worth every cent of three thousand dollars.  Poor Gray!  I can’t help feeling sorry for him.  But it’s his luck.  He valued his farm at three thousand five hundred dollars.  A week ago he counted himself worth two thousand dollars, clean.  Now he isn’t worth a copper.  Fifteen hundred dollars and three or four years’ labour thrown away into the bargain.  But it’s his luck!  So the world goes.  He must try again.  It will all go in his lifetime.”

“Gray?  Is that the man’s name?” inquired Mr. Bolton.  His voice was changed.

“Yes.  I thought I had mentioned his name.”

“I didn’t remark it, if you did.  It’s the farm adjoining Harvey’s, on the north?”

“Yes.”

“I have had it in my mind, all along, that it was the one on the south.”