Jerome went close to him. "Uncle Ozias, I want to know what is the matter?" he said, then started, for suddenly Ozias raised his face and looked at him, his eyes wild under his shaggy grizzle of hair, his mouth twisted in a fierce laugh. "Want to know, do ye?" he cried--"want to know? Well, I'll tell ye. Look at me hard; I'm a sight. Look at me. Here's a man, 'most threescore years and ten, who's been willin' to work, an' has worked, an' 'ain't been considered underwitted, who's been strugglin' to keep a roof over his head an' his wife's, an' bread in their two mouths; jest that, no more. He 'ain't had any children; nobody but himself an' his wife, an' she contented with next to nothin'. Jest a roof an' bread for them--jest that; an' he an able-bodied man, that's worked like a dog--jest that; an' he's got to give it up. Look at him, he's a sight for wise men an' fools." Ozias laughed. "What on earth do you mean, Uncle Ozias?" "Simon Basset is goin' to foreclose to-morrow." Jerome stared at his uncle incredulously. "Why, I thought you had earned plenty to keep the interest up of late years!" he said. "There was more than present interest to pay; there was back interest, and I've been behind on taxes, and there was an old doctor bill, when I had the fever; an' that wa'n't all--I never told ye, nor anybody. I was fool enough to sign a note for George Henry Green, in Westbrook, some years ago. He come to me with tears in his eyes, said he wouldn't care so much if it wa'n't for his wife an' children; he'd got to raise the money, an' couldn't get nobody to sign his note. I lost every dollar of it. It's been all I could do to pay up, an' I couldn't keep even with the interest. I knew it was comin'." "How much interest do you owe?" asked Jerome, in an odd voice. He was very pale. "Two hundred an' seventy dollars--it's twelve per cent." "And you can't raise it?" "Might as well try to raise the dead." "Well, I can let you have it," said Jerome. "You?" "Yes." His uncle looked at him with his sharp, strained eyes; then he made a hoarse noise, between a sob and a cough. "Rob you of that money you've been savin' to build your mill! We'll take to the woods first!" he cried. "I've saved a good deal more than two hundred and seventy dollars." "You want every dollar of it for your mill. Don't talk to me." "I'd want every dollar if I was going to build it, but I am not," said Jerome. "What d'ye mean? Ain't ye goin' to start it to-morrow?" "No, I've decided not to." "Why not, I'd like to know?" "I'm going to wait until the Dale railroad seems a little nearer. I shouldn't have much business for the mill now if I built it, and there's no use in its standing rotting. I'm going to wait a little." Poor Ozias Lamb looked at him with his keen old eyes, which were, perhaps, dulled a little by the selfishness of his sore distress. "D'ye mean what ye say, J'rome?" he asked, wistfully, in a tone that was new to him.