“Your Uncle Joe got mixed up in a hazing frolic, or something o’ that sort,” resumed the grandfather. “One or two of the students got hurt, one of ’em so bad that he died,—or it was given out that he died,—and the blame fell on Joe. He declared he wasn’t guilty, but the college authorities had to fix the blame somewhere, though the case was uncertain. They never proved that the boy was dead, but we raised the money and bailed Joe out o’ jail. When the story was started that the fellow had died, Joe skipped his bail and left us all in a hole. That was what made and has kept us poor.” “Did you never hear of the other man, grandpa?” “Oh, yes; he turned up, but too late to do Joe or the rest of us any good.” “Poor dear Uncle Joe!” “You’d better say poor dear all the rest of us,” cried the great-grandmother, who had staked and lost her little all in the great calamity. “But Uncle Joe was sinned against, grannie dear. How he must have suffered!” “Them that’s sinned against are often greater sufferers than them that sins,” was the sad reply. “When the bail was jumped, the hard times set in with all of us,” resumed the grandfather. “The banks, as I was saying, went broke, the interest on the mortgages piled up, and the notes fell due. The crops got the rust and the weevil, and everything else went wrong. You see, Jean, when a man starts down hill, everybody tries to give him a kick. The long and the short of it is that mother, here, and grannie and I have been the same as paupers for more than a dozen years.” “I must be going, though you must first tell me how you two and dear old grannie are going to live when we are away in Oregon. Your way seems very uncertain,” said Jean. “Your father has made some kind of a bargain for our support with your Uncle Lije. But he’s sort o’ visionary, and he never has much luck. If he loses the property, we can go to the poorhouse.” “Are you to be allowed no stated sum to live on? Will you have no means of your own to gratify your individual wishes or tastes?” “No, child; not a picayune.” “What’s a picayune?” “A six-and-a-quarter-cent piece.” “I’m just as wise as I was before.” “They’re wellnigh out o’ circulation nowadays, though I used to come across ’em frequently when I was sheriff,” said the old man. Jean covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. “Don’t worry about us, dearie,” said the old man. “There is One above us who heareth even the young ravens when they cry. There is not a sparrow that falleth to the ground without His knowledge. Your Uncle Lije will move into the old homestead when you are all gone. Your father built this cottage for us when he assumed the mortgage, as you know. We won’t be entirely alone, but we’ll miss you all; and we’ll try to remember that we are of more value than many sparrows.”