David was silent. His brown, boyish hand shaded his eyes. It had been his fault that he had not heard of this old woman and the loss of her son. He had shrunk from all knowledge and mention of this little home and its inmates. The country folk had recognized and respected his reticence, which to people near the soil seems natural. This had been the only issue in his life that he had dodged, and he was bitterly repenting his negligence. In memory of his mother, he should have helped the lonely old woman. "You were left a poor, helpless boy," she continued, "and I am left a poor, helpless old woman. The very young and the very old meet in their helplessness, yet there is hope for the one--nothing for the other." "Yes, memories," he suggested softly, "and the pride you feel in his having died as he did." "There is that," she acknowledged with a sigh, "and if only I could live on here in this little place where we have been so happy! But I must leave it." "Why?" asked David quickly. "After my Carl died, things began to happen. When once they do that, there is no stopping. The bank at the Corners failed, and I lost my savings. The turkeys wandered away, the cow died, and now there's the mortgage. It's due to-morrow, and then--the man that holds it will wait no longer. So it is the poorhouse, which I have always dreaded." David's head lifted, and his eyes shone radiantly as he looked into the tired, hopeless eyes. "Your mortgage will be paid to-morrow, and--Don't you draw a pension for your son?" She looked at him in a dazed way. "No, there is no pension--I--" "Judge Thorne will get you one," he said optimistically, as he rose, ready for action, "and how much is the mortgage?" "Three hundred dollars," she said despairingly. "Almost as much as the place is worth. Who holds the mortgage?" "Deacon Prickley." "You see," said David, trying to speak casually, "I have three hundred dollars lying idle for which I have no use. I'll ride to town now and have the Judge see that the place is clear to you, and he will get you a pension, twelve dollars a month." The worn, seamed face lifted to his was transfigured by its look of beatitude. "You mustn't," she implored. "I didn't know about the pension. That will keep me, and I can find another little place somewhere. But the money you offer--no! I have heard how you have been saving to go through school." He smiled. "Uncle Barnabas and the Judge are anxious to pay my expenses at college, and--you _must_ let me. I would like to think, don't you see, that you are living here in my old home. It will seem to me as if I were doing it for _my_ mother--as I would want some boy to do for her if she were left--and it's my country's service he died in. I would rather buy this little place for you, and know that you are living here, than to buy anything else in the world." The old face was quite beautiful now.