“You will write to me, Carl?” “Yes, when I have anything agreeable to write.” “Let us hope that will be soon.” CHAPTER VII. ENDS IN A TRAGEDY. Carl obtained permission to leave his trunk at the Vance mansion, merely taking out what he absolutely needed for a change. “When I am settled I will send for it,” he said. “Now I shouldn’t know what to do with it.” There were cordial good-bys, and Carl started once more on the tramp. He might, indeed, have traveled by rail, for he had ten dollars and thirty-seven cents; but it occurred to him that in walking he might meet with some one who would give him employment. Besides, he was not in a hurry to get on, nor had he any definite destination. The day was fine, there was a light breeze, and he experienced a hopeful exhilaration as he walked lightly on, with the world before him, and any number of possibilities in the way of fortunate adventures that might befall him. He had walked five miles, when, to the left, he saw an elderly man hard at work in a hay field. He was leaning on his rake, and looking perplexed and troubled. Carl paused to rest, and as he looked over the rail fence, attracted the attention of the farmer. “I say, young feller, where are you goin’?” he asked. “I don’t know--exactly.” “You don’t know where you are goin’?” repeated the farmer, in surprise. Carl laughed. “I am going out in the world to seek my fortune,” he said. “You be? Would you like a job?” asked the farmer, eagerly. “What sort of a job?” “I’d like to have you help me hayin’. My hired man is sick, and he’s left me in a hole. It’s goin’ to rain, and----” “Going to rain?” repeated Carl, in surprise, as he looked up at the nearly cloudless sky. “Yes. It don’t look like it, I know, but old Job Hagar say it’ll rain before night, and what he don’t know about the weather ain’t worth knowin’. I want to get the hay on this meadow into the barn, and then I’ll feel safe, rain or shine.” “And you want me to help you?” “Yes; you look strong and hardy.” “Yes, I am pretty strong,” said Carl, complacently. “Well, what do you say?” “All right. I’ll help you.” Carl gave a spring and cleared the fence, landing in the hay field, having first thrown his valise over. “You’re pretty spry,” said the farmer. “I couldn’t do that.” “No, you’re too heavy,” said Carl, smiling, as he noted the clumsy figure of his employer. “Now, what shall I do?” “Take that rake and rake up the hay. Then we’ll go over to the barn and get the hay wagon.” “Where is your barn?” The farmer pointed across the fields to a story-and-a-half farmhouse, and standing near it a good-sized barn, brown from want of paint and exposure to sun and rain. The buildings were perhaps twenty-five rods distant. “Are you used to hayin’?” asked the farmer. “Well, no, not exactly; though I’ve handled a rake before.”