“She writes me she has drawn a ten-day draft for twenty-two hundred dollars,” he said to himself. “How on earth can I meet it? What shall I do about it? Let me think it out.” And checking his steps, which had begun to tend towards the college, where a reception to which he had been invited was being held, he took a turn or two in the already darkening street, and then started back to his rooms. In his mind, step by step, he traced out the possible consequences of action in the matter, but long consideration only confirmed his first impression that it was too late now to change the course of affairs so long existing. “But how am I to meet this last demand?” he questioned. “There is but one way open to me,” he finally thought. “The old home must go.” He nervously walked on, repeating to himself, “Mother! mother! I could never do this for anyone but you.” With the memory of his beloved father so strong within him, it was difficult to bring himself to face the inevitable with composure. The turbulent working of his heart contended against the resignation of his brain, and, when for a moment he felt resigned, then the memory of his dead father’s wish would rise up and protest, and the battle would have to be fought over again. But what he considered to be duty to the living triumphed over what he held as loyalty to the dead, so the next time he went to the old homestead, “For Sale” glared coldly and, he even imagined, reproachfully at him. It was then that Elliott realized the immensity of his sacrifice and bowed his head in silent sorrow. CHAPTER IV. After that one time, Elliott Harding determined to face the inevitable and passed into the house without seeming to see the placard. One day while sitting in his accustomed writing place, which was the parlor, now furnished with a table and office chair, a man walked up the front steps. Elliott had just finished writing the words “The glimpses of light I have gained make the darkness more apparent,” when the man entered the doorway. The stranger was a tall, lean individual with iron gray beard curving out from under the chin. Eyes dark, keen and deep set; cheekbones as high as an Indian’s; hair iron gray and thick around the base of the skull, but thin and tangled over the top of the head, formed a combination striking and not unattractive. Though apparently far past his prime, he appeared to be as hearty and hale as if half the years of his life were yet to come. After gazing a moment at Elliott, he opened the conversation by saying: “Good morning! I suppose you are the agent for this property?” “I am, sir,” answered Elliott, courteously. “Come in and have a seat,” offering him his chair as he stood up and leaned against the writing table.