It was the loss of Anna, I fancied; and when we at last were seated in the buggy, and on our way home, I hastened to speak of her, and to tell him of the favorable report we heard of Herbert. But naught which I said seemed to rouse him; and at last I, too, fell into the same thoughtful mood, in which even old Sorrel shared, for he moved with his head down, scarcely once leaving the slow, measured walk he had first assumed. When, at last, we reached the hill-top, from which could be seen the Homestead, with its maple trees in front, and long row of apple trees, now in full bloom, in the rear, I started up, exclaiming, “Home, sweet home! It never looked half so beautiful to me before.” In a moment, however, I checked myself; for my father groaned aloud, while his face grew whiter than before. “What is it, father,” I asked; “are they sick, or dead?” “Neither, neither,” he replied, at the same time chirruping to old Sorrel, who pricked up his ears, and soon carried us to the door of our house, where I was warmly greeted by all. And still there was in what they said and did an air of melancholy which puzzled me; and when I was alone with Lizzie, I asked her the cause why they looked so sad? Bursting into tears, she replied, “This is not our home any longer. We must leave it, and go, we don’t know where—to the _poor-house_, ’pa sometimes says, when he feels the worst, and then grandma cries so hard—oh, it’s dreadful!” “And why must we leave it?” I asked; and Lizzie answered, “Pa has signed notes for Uncle Thomas, who has failed, and now the homestead must be sold to pay his debts—and they so proud, too!” It was as Lizzie had said. Uncle Thomas Harding was my mother’s brother, who lived in Providence, in far greater style, it was said, than he was able to support. Several times had Aunt Harding visited us, together with her two daughters, Ellen and Theodosia. They were proud, haughty girls, and evidently looked upon us, their _country cousins_, with contempt; only tolerating us, because it was pleasant to have some place in the country where to while away a few weeks, which, in the heated, dusty city, would otherwise hang heavily upon their hands. On such occasions they made themselves perfectly at home, and somehow or other managed to have my mother feel that she was really indebted to them for the honor they conferred upon her, by calling her Aunty, by appropriating to themselves the greater portion of the house, by skimming the cream from the pans of milk, by eating up the pie she had saved for us children when we came hungry and cross from school, and by keeping old Sorrel constantly in the harness, or under the saddle.