"I nailed all the tar-paper on the--the chicken house," she told him in a fresh accession of unhappiness, the tears spilling over her round, flushed cheeks. It annoyed him to see her cry: it was as though Lettice was suffering again from old misery. His irritation grew at this seeming renewal of what had gone; it assumed the aspect of an intentional reproach, of Lettice returned to bother him with her pain and death. He turned sharply to continue on his way. But, almost immediately, he stopped. "Your name?" he demanded. "Adelaide Crandall." The Crandalls, he knew, were a reputable family living in the valley bottom east of Greenstream village. Matthew Crandall had died a few years before, and, as this girl had indicated, had left a substantial farm to each of his sons. Cannon would get this one, and it was more than probable, the others. The old enmity against Valentine Simmons, directed at Cannon, flamed afresh. Simmons or the other--what did the name matter? they were the same, a figurative apple press crushing the juice out of the country, leaving but a mash of hopes and lives. He stood irresolute, while Adelaide Crandall fought to control her emotions. The badgering voice of the sheriff sounded again on his hearing. He crossed the road, pushed open the grinding iron gate of the fence that enclosed the Courthouse lawn, and made his way through the sere, fallen leaves to the steps. III "Twenty-seven hundred and ninety dollars," the sheriff reiterated; "only twenty-seven ninety ... this fine bottom land, all cleared and buildings in best repair. Going! Going!" "Three thousand," a man called from the group facing the columned portico. "Three thousand! Three thousand! Sale must be made. Going--" "Thirty-one hundred," Gordon pronounced abruptly. A stir of renewed interest animated the sale. Gordon heard his name pronounced in accents of surprise. He was surprised at himself: his bid had been unpremeditated--it had leaped like a flash of ignited powder out of the resurrected enmity to Valentine Simmons, out of the memories stirred by the figure that resembled Lettice. The sheriff immediately took up his bid. "Thirty-one hundred! thirty-one, gentlemen; only thirty-one for this fine bottom land, all cleared--" There was a prolonged pause in the bidding, during which even the auctioneer grew apathetic. He repeated the assertion that the buildings were in the best repair; then, abruptly, concluded the sale. Gordon had purchased the farm for thirty-one hundred dollars. He despatched, in the Courthouse, the necessary formalities. When he emerged the group on the lawn had dwindled to three people conversing intently. A young man with heavy shoulders already bowed, clad in unaccustomed, stiff best clothes, advanced to meet him. "Mr. Makimmon," he began; "you got my place.... There's none better. I've put a lot of work into it. I'll--I'll get my things out soon's I can. If you can give me some time; my wife--"