"Yes, Miss Higgins got yer telegram," answered Deacon Brewer, as they drove slowly along the river in the dusty heat of the early July morning. "Ef she hadn't I reckon she'd 'a' gone nigh crazy." They were in an open two-seated buck-board. McAllister, holding Abby in his lap, occupied the front seat with the Deacon, while Wilkins sat behind with the valise and the pasteboard box. "It was a tiresome delay and really a very fortunate escape," responded McAllister. "Abby behaved beautifully." "She's a good child," said the Deacon. "Her mother was a fine woman, and she's goin' to be just like her." "Are we nearly home?" asked the little girl, rubbing her eyes. "'Most," answered the Deacon. "Are ye hungry?" "I got her some bread and milk at a farm-house," explained McAllister, "but none of us have had any breakfast yet." "Wall, I reckon Miss Higgins'll be prepared for ye," said the Deacon. "She's a liberal woman an' a smart woman, but all the same, the farm's going to be sold for taxes next week." Abby had fallen asleep, but the clubman started and looked anxiously at her at this piece of intelligence. "She don't know nuthin' about it," said the farmer. "Miss Higgins can't run a hard-scrabble farm, nor no one can and make a livin' out'n it. It ain't worth five dollars an acre." "What will she do?" asked the clubman. "Darn ef I know," responded the other. "She kin help around some, I guess. Deacon Giddings has a powerful lot of company. 'N any woman kin sew. She kin make out, I reckon." "But the child?" whispered McAllister. "Her Uncle Moses'll hev to take her," answered the Deacon. "Jiminy!" ejaculated the clubman, recalling the little girl's description of her uncle's wife. "She won't like that." "Beggars can't be choosers," said the Deacon dryly. A turn in the road brought them within view of a small, low farm-house, with good-sized barn, lying in a field between the woods and the river, here about a quarter of a mile in width. The pines grew close to the road upon the left, but upon the other side the land had been well cleared to the Penobscot's bank. Huge piles of stones, ten or twelve feet long, five or so broad, and four or five feet high, were monuments to the energy and industry of some former owner. "Gosh, how Henery worked to clear this farm!" remarked the Deacon. "He hove stone for twenty years, an' then died. Look at them trees!" He pointed dramatically to a large orchard containing row upon row of young apple-trees. At the sound of the wheels a woman came slowly out of the side door and watched their approach. She had the pale, sickly countenance of the wife of the inland Maine farmer, and her limp dress ill concealed the angularity of her form. Her eyes showed that she had passed a sleepless night. McAllister leaped out and lifted Abby down. The woman neither spoke to nor kissed the child, but clutched her tightly in her arms. Then she nodded to the new-comers.