“No use a talkin,” says he. “Ile have to do as the law says. Its not me a puttin you out, Mrs. Gaskins—its not me that is cruel. It is the law, the law, that is doin it.” “Come on, men,” says he, speakin to the other fellers. So they come right into the house, the house I had loved so well, walkin over the floor I have scrubbed on my hands and knees thousands of times, and begin to tear up my things and carry them out in the big road. I jist felt so queer I could hardly breathe. They tore down my stove and tore up my carpet, and carried out fust one thing, then another, and sot them down beside the road, till all I had was out there. When they got it all out, the deputy come in and says: “Why dont you go out there where your things are? You have no right here. You must git out, so I can lock up the house.” Says I: “Mistur, is Congressman Richer a goin to move in to-nite?” Says he, sneerin like: “Why, Lord no; Mr. Richer wouldent live in sich a house as this—he lives in Washington; he lives in a _fine_ house.” “Well, then, Mistur, let me stay in here till I hear from Jobe.” “No,” says he, “you must git out.” [Illustration: “They pulled me away from the winder.”] Says I, chokin like: “Mistur, I _cant_ go.” “Well, youve _got_ to go,” says he. “Are you a goin?” “I cant,” says I. “Here, men,” says he, “take her out of here and out yonder, where she belongs.” So one of them big men took hold of one arm, and the other hold of the other arm, and pulled me away from the winder where I was standin (the same one where I was standin the mornin Jobe left), and pulled me out of that dear old kitchen door and across the yard and out into the big road, where they had piled my things, and sot me down on a chair. The sheriff had locked the house and follered them out. When he came out he says, as though he wanted to be friendly: “Where do you think of goin to, Mrs. Gaskins?” I looked at him to see if he was crazy or what, but I couldent speak, I was so full. Says he: “Do you want the boys to put up your bed for you?” I nodded my head. They set my bed up and put two jints of pipe on my stove, and then got in their buggy and went to town. It was nearly sundown when they left me. Soon arter they had gone Tom Osborne come a ridin by and brought me a letter. As soon as he said “letter” my heart leapt. I knew it was from Jobe. Tom said he was sorry to see me out here in the road, and the man really shed tears. He lives some eight miles from here, and wanted me to go home with him for the nite. But I jist couldent go. So he rode on. Arter he was gone I got a lamp and sot down by the fire I had built in the stove, with some quilts around me, to read poor Jobe’s letter. And every word seemed to be another knife stuck in my heart.