“Mr. Bacon, I guess I shall have to call on you for them three hundred dollars,” said the tavern-keeper, in a firm voice.

“Can’t pay that mortgage now, Mr. Dyer,” returned Bacon, with a troubled expression; “no use to think of it.”

“Rather a cool way to treat a man after borrowing his money.  I told you when I lent it that I might want it at almost any time.”

“Oh! no, Mr. Dyer.  It was understood, distinctly, that from four to six months’ notice would be given,” replied Mr. Bacon, positively.

“Preposterous!” ejaculated the tavern-keeper.  “Never thought of such a thing.  Six months notice, indeed!”

“That was the agreement,” said Mr. Bacon, firmly.

“Is it in the bond?”

“No, it was verbal, between us.”

Dyer shook his head, as he answered,—­

“No, sir.  I never make agreements of that kind; the money was to be paid on demand, and I have ridden over this morning to make the demand.”

“It is midwinter, Mr. Dyer,” was replied in a husky voice.

“Well?”

“You know that a small farmer, like me, cannot be in possession, at this season, of the large sum you demand.”

“That is your affair, Mr. Bacon.  I want my money now, and must have it.”

There was a tone of menace in the way this was said that Mr. Bacon fully understood.

“I haven’t thirty dollars, much less three hundred, in my possession,” said he.

“Borrow it, then.”

“Impossible! money has not been so scarce for years.  Every one is complaining.”

“You’d better make the effort, Mr. Bacon, I shall be sorry to put you to any trouble, but my money will have to be forthcoming.”

“You will not enter up the mortgage?” said the farmer.

“It will certainly come to that, unless you can pay it.”

“That is what I call oppression!” returned Mr. Bacon, in momentary indignation, for the utterance of which he was as quickly repentant.

“Good morning,” said Dyer, suddenly turning his horse’s head, and riding off at a brisk trot.

For nearly five minutes, old Mr. Bacon stood with his axe resting on the ground, lost in painful thought.  Then he went slowly into the house, and sitting down before the fire, let his head sink upon his breast, and there mused on the trouble that was closing around him.  But there came no ray of light, piercing the thick darkness that had fallen so suddenly.

Nothing was then said to his family on the subject, but it was apparent to all that something was wrong, for the lips that gave utterance to so many pleasant words, and parted so often in cheerful smiles, were still silent.”

“Are you not well, to-day?” asked Mrs. Bacon, as the family gathered around the dinner-table, and she remarked her husband’s unusually sober face.

“Not very well,” he replied.

“What ails you, father?” said Mary, with tender concern in her voice, and her eyes were turned upon him with affectionate earnestness.