"I had to," Quin whispered back apologetically. "We got to sell 'em the farm." "What farm? Papa Claude's? Whom are you going to sell it to?" Quin lifted a warning finger and nodded significantly at the back of Mr. Ranny's unsuspecting head. "Uncle Ranny?" Eleanor's lips formed the words incredulously. Then the mere suggestion of outwitting her grandmother and saving Papa Claude by such a master stroke of diplomacy struck her so humorously that she broke into laughter, in which Quin joined. "You two are very lively all of a sudden," Mrs. Ranny said over her shoulder. "What is the joke?" "Miss Eleanor and I have gone into the real estate business. Do you want to buy a farm?" "We always want to buy a farm. We look at every one we hear is for sale. But they all cost too much." "This one won't. It's a bargain-counter farm. A house and fifteen acres. You can get it for six thousand dollars if you'll buy it to-day." "All right; we'll take it," cried Mr. Ranny gaily. "Lead us to it." The quest for the farm became so absorbing that the wild flowers were forgotten. The oftener they took the wrong road and had to start over, the keener they became to reach their destination. "I believe it was a pipe-dream," said Mr. Ranny; "you never saw the place at all." "Yes, I did! I'm not kidding you. It's a regular peach of a place for anybody that's got money to fix it up. Hold on a minute; this looks like the side lane. Do you mind walking the rest of the way?" "Not if we get anywhere," said Mr. Ranny. Their way led through a tangled thicket, across a log bridge, and up a steep hillside abloom from base to summit with early spring flowers. Down through the tender green leaves the sunshine poured, searching out many nooks and corners at which it would get no chance when the heavier foliage intervened. "This is where the land begins," said Quin. "Did you ever see such bully old trees? Any time you wanted to sell off lots, you see, you could do it on this side, without touching the farm." "Where's the house?" asked Mrs. Ranny. "Right through here," said Quin, holding back the branches, "Now, ain't that a nice old place?" His enthusiasm met with no response. In the center of what had once been a clearing stood an old stone building, half smothered in a wilderness of weeds and sassafras and cane, its one big chimney dreaming in the silence that seemed to have encompassed it for ages. The shutters hung disconsolate on their hinges, the window-panes were broken, the cornice sagged dejectedly. Eleanor's heart sank. It was worse, far worse, than Papa Claude had described it, fit only for the birds and spiders and chipmunks that were already in possession. How Quin could ever for a moment have thought of selling such a place to the fastidious Bartletts was more than she could imagine. But he was carrying the matter off with a high hand, in spite of the dismayed faces of his prospective buyers.