“Say,” he began, coming up awkwardly to Larry, “I didn’t know you was bein’ sold out. I--I didn’t mean t’ make fun of ye. I--I was only foolin’ when I said ye was a cry-baby. Ye can have my best fishhook, honest ye can!” “Thanks, Chot,” replied Larry, quick to feel the change of feeling. “I couldn’t help crying when I saw some of the things dad used to have going under the hammer. But I feel worse for mother and the others. I can stand it.” “Are ye goin’ away from here?” asked Chot, for that anyone should leave Campton, where he had lived all his life, seemed too strange a thing to be true. “I think we will go to New York,” replied Larry. “Mother’s sister lives there. I expect to get some work, and help support the folks.” “I wish I was goin’ off like that!” exclaimed Chot. “They could sell everything in my house, an’ everything I’ve got, except my dog, if they’d let me go t’ New York.” “You don’t know when you’re well off,” spoke Larry, who, in the last few months, under the stress of trouble, had become older than his years indicated. By this time James, who saw a big yellow butterfly darting about among the flowers which grew in an old-fashioned garden below the barn, rushed to capture it, forgetting his troubles. Larry, whose grief-stricken mood had passed, returned to the house, to find it a place of confusion. Men and women were in almost every room, going through and looking at the different articles. The loud voice of the auctioneer rang out, and Larry felt another pang in his heart as he saw piece after piece of furniture being knocked down to the highest bidder. The boy found his mother in the bedroom, where she had sought a quiet place to rest. “Have you really made up your mind to go to New York, mother?” Larry asked. “I think it is the best thing to do,” was the answer. “We can stay with your aunt Ellen until I can find some work to do.” “Are you going to work, mother? I hate to think of it. I’ll work for you.” “I know you will do what you can,” replied Mrs. Dexter, “but I’m afraid boys do not earn much in big cities, so we will need all we both can get. It is going to be a hard struggle.” “Don’t worry!” exclaimed Larry, assuming a cheerfulness he did not feel. “It will all come out right, somehow, you see if it doesn’t.” “I hope so,” sighed Mrs. Dexter. The auctioneering of the goods went on rapidly, and, toward the close of the afternoon, all that were not to be kept were disposed of. Mr. Rollinson cried his last “Going! Going! Gone!” brought his hammer down for the last time with a loud bang, and then announced that the sale was over. “Where’s your mother, Larry?” he asked of the boy. “I’ll call her.” In a few minutes Larry had brought Mrs. Dexter to where the deputy sheriff waited for her in the parlor. “Wa’al, everthing’s sold,” Mr. Rollinson began. “Didn’t bring as much as I cal’lated on, but then ye never can git much at a forced sale.”