“I suppose you understand what it is?” “Perhaps I do, but you had better explain.” “I have made up my mind to foreclose the mortgage I hold on this place, and I should like to have you move out within three days, as I am going to let it.” “Indeed! To whom do you intend to let it?” “To Frank Shelton. He’s goin’ to be married, and this house will suit him.” “And what am I to do, Mr. Jones? You surely do not mean to deprive Robert and me of our home?” “It isn’t yours any longer, or won’t be. Of course, you can’t expect to stay here. I haven’t forgotten how you talked to me when I was here before nor how impudent your boy was.” “Meaning me?” asked Robert with a grave face. “Of course I mean you!” said Mr. Jones sharply. “I haven’t said anything impudent to you to-day, have I?” “No, but you’d ought to have thought of that before. It’s too late now!” “You won’t turn us out on the street, will you, Mr. Jones?” “Haven’t I given you three days to stay? If you want my advice, I should say that you’d find a good, comfortable home in the poorhouse. Your boy there might be bound out to a farmer.” “I don’t know any farmer that wants a boy,” said Robert meekly. “I’d take you myself,” said Nahum Jones, “if you wasn’t so impudent. I’m afraid you’re a little too airy for me.” “Wouldn’t you let the house to me, Mr. Jones?” asked the widow. “It’s worth a good deal more than the face of the mortgage.” “You couldn’t get a dollar more, in my opinion,” said the landlord. “As to takin’ you for a tenant, I haven’t any assurance that you could pay the rent.” “What rent do you want for it, Mr. Jones?” “Five dollars a month.” “Five dollars a month, when you say it’s only worth two hundred dollars!” “I’m goin’ to fix it up a little,” said Mr. Jones, rather nonplussed. “I think, Mr. Jones, we won’t move,” said Robert. “Won’t move?” ejaculated the landlord, getting red in the face. “You’ve got to move.” “Who says so?” “I say so, you young whelp!” “No hard names, if you please, Mr. Jones. The fact is, my aunt doesn’t fancy going to the poorhouse. To be sure, if she could have your society there it might make a difference.” “You’ll repent this impudence, Bob Coverdale!” “How am I impudent?” “To talk of my being in the poorhouse!” “You spoke of Aunt Jane going to the poorhouse.” “That’s a different matter.” “At any rate, she won’t go!” said Robert decidedly. “Won’t? We’ll see about that. How are you going to help it?” “By paying the mortgage,” answered Robert quietly. “You can’t do it,” said Mr. Jones, his jaw drooping. “You are mistaken, Mr. Jones. If you’ll write a receipt, I am ready to pay it now--principal and interest.” Robert drew out a roll of bills from the pocket of his ragged vest and began to count them. “Where did you get this money?” ejaculated the landlord.