The matter was placed in the hands of the sheriff, whose duty it is to foreclose mortgages, and that official, being a busy man, delegated the unpleasant task to one of his deputies or assistants, who lived in the town of Campton. The sale had been advertised for several miles surrounding the village, and on the date set quite a crowd gathered. There were farmers from many hamlets, a number of whom brought their wives and families, as a country auction is not unlike a fair or circus as an attraction. There they were sure to meet friends and acquaintances, and, besides, they might pick up some bargains. “Who’ll make the first offer?” called Mr. Rollinson. “The upset or startin’ price is fifteen hundred dollars, an’ I’ll jest go ahead with that. Now who’ll make it two thousand?” “I’ll go seventeen hundred,” called a short stout man in the front row. “Huh! I should think ye would, Nate Jackson. Why, seventeen hundred dollars wouldn’t buy th’ house an’ barn. You’ll hev t’ do better than that!” “I’ll say eighteen hundred,” cried a woman who seemed to mean business. “Now you’re talkin’!” cried Mr. Rollinson. “That’s sumthin’ like. Why, jest think of th’ pasture, an’ woodland, an’ cows an’ horses an’----” “I’ll make it two thousand dollars,” said a third bidder. “I’m bid two thousand,” cried the deputy sheriff. “Who’ll make it twenty-two hundred?” Then the auction was in full swing. The bidding became lively, though the advances were of smaller amounts than at first. By degrees the price crept up until it was twenty-nine hundred dollars. “I’ve got to git at least thirty-one hundred to pay th’ mortgage an’ expenses,” the auctioneer explained. “If I don’t git more than this last bid Mr. Mortland will take the property himself. Now’s your last chance, neighbors.” This seemed to stimulate the people, and several offers came in at once, until at last the bid was $3,090. There it seemed to stick, no one caring to go any higher, and each one hoping he might, by adding a few dollars more, get possession of the property, which was worth considerable above the figure offered. While the auction was going on there sat, in the darkened parlor of the farmhouse, Mrs. Dexter and her three younger children. With them were some sympathizing neighbors, who had called to tell her how sorry they were that she had lost the farm. “What do you intend to do?” asked Mrs. Olney, winding her long cork-screw curls about her fingers. “I’m sure I don’t know,” Mrs. Dexter said. “If we have to leave here, and I suppose we will, I think the only thing to do is to go to my sister. She lives in New York.” “Let’s see, she married a Jimson, didn’t she?” asked Mrs. Peterkins, another neighbor. “No, her husband’s name is Edward Ralston,” replied Mrs. Dexter. “He is a conductor on a street car, in New York. My sister wrote to me to come to her if I could find no other place.”