It was the walk of a mile from the store to his house, and as he went on he fell to examining the tobacco, which appeared to ripen hour by hour in the warm, moist season. There was no danger of frost as yet, and though a little of Fletcher's crop had already been cut, the others had left theirs to mature in the favourable weather. From a clear emerald the landscape had changed to a yellowish green, and the huge leaves had crinkled at the edges like shirred silk. Here and there pale-brown splotches on a plant showed that it had too quickly ripened, or small perforations revealed the destructive presence of a hidden tobacco worm. As Christopher neared the house the hounds greeted him with a single bay, and the cry brought Cynthia hastily out upon the porch and along the little path. At the gate she met him, and slipping her hand under his arm, drew him across the road to the rail fence that bordered the old field. At sight of her tearless pallor his ever-present fear shot up, and without waiting for her words he cried out quickly: "Is mother ill?" "No, no," she answered, "oh, no; but, Christopher, it is the next worse thing." He thought for a breath. "Then she has found out?" "It's not that either," she shook her head. "Oh, Christopher, it's Fletcher!" "It's Fletcher! What in thunder have we to do with Fletcher?" "You remember the deed of trust on the place--the three hundred dollars we borrowed when mother was sick. Fletcher has bought it from Tom Spade and he means to foreclose it in a week. He has advertised the farm at the cross-roads." He paled with anger. "Why, I saw Tom about it three days ago," he said, striking the rotten fence rail until it broke and fell apart; "he told me it could run on at the same interest." "It's since then that Fletcher has bought it. He meant it as a surprise, of course, to drive us out whether or no, but Sam Murray came straight up to tell you." He stood thinking hard, his eyes on the waving goldenrod in the old field. "I'll sell the horses," he said at last. "And starve? Besides, they wouldn't bring the money." "Then we'll sell the furniture--every last stick! We'll sell the clothes from our backs--I'll sell myself into slavery before Fletcher shall beat me now!" "We've sold all we've got," said Cynthia; "the old furniture is too heavy--all that's left; nobody about here wants it." "I tell you I'll find those three hundred dollars if I have to steal them. I'd rather go to prison than have Fletcher get the place." "Then he'd leave it in the end," remarked Cynthia hopelessly; adding after a pause, "I've thought it all out, dear, and we must steal the money--we must steal it from mother." "From mother!" he echoed, touched to the quick. "You know her big diamond," sobbed the woman, "the one in her engagement ring, that she never used to take off, even at night, till her fingers got so thin." "Oh, I couldn't!" he protested.