Poor Hambright was but a scrawny little village on a red hill with no big values to be saved, and no mills to interest the commercial world, and the auctioneer lifted his hammer. CHAPTER XVIII--THE RED FLAG OF THE AUCTIONEER THE excitement through which Tom Camp had passed in the death of his daughter, and the stirring events connected with it, had been more than his feeble body could endure. He had been stricken with paroxysms of pain and nausea from his old wounds. For three days and nights he had suffered unspeakable agonies. He had borne his pain with stoical indifference. “Tom, old man, do look at me! You skeer me,” said his wife leaning tenderly over him. “Oh! I’m all right, Annie.” “What was you studyin’ about then?” “I was just a thinkin’ we didn’t kill babies in the war. Them was awful times, but they wuz nothin’ to what we’re goin’ through now. The Lord knows best, but I can’t understand it.” “Well, don’t talk any more. You’re too weak.” “I must git up, Annie. Got to git out anyhow. The Sheriff’s goin’ to sell us out to-day, and I want to sorter look ’round once before we go.” So, leaning on his wife’s arm, he hobbled around the place saying good-bye to its familiar objects. They stopped before the garden gate. “Don’t go in there, Tom, I can’t stand it,” cried his wife. “When I think of leavin’ that garden I’ve worked so hard on all these years, and that’s give us so many good things to eat, and never failed us the year round, I just feel like it’ll tear my heart out.” “Do you mind the day we set out these trees, Annie, an’ you, my own purty gal holdin’ ’em fur me while I packed the dirt around ’em, and told you how sweet you wuz?” “Yes, and I love every twig of ’em. They’ve all helped me in times of need. Oh! Lord, it’s hard to give it up!” She couldn’t keep back the tears. “Well, now, ole woman, you mustn’t break down. You’re strong and well and I’m all shot to pieces and crippled and no ’count. But the Lord still lives. We’ll get this place back. The Lord’s just trying our faith. He thinks mebbe I’ll give up.” “You think we can ever get it back?” “General Worth sent me word he couldn’t do anything now, but to let it go and keep a stiff upper lip. The General ain’t no fool.” “Surely the Lord can’t let us starve.” “Starve! I reckon not! The foxes have holes, the birds of the air nests, but the Son of Man had not where to lay His head, but He never starved. No, God’s in Heaven. I’ll trust Him.” A mocking bird whose mate had just built her nest to rear a second brood for the season was seated on the topmost branch of a cedar near the house, and singing as though he would fill heaven and earth with the glory of his love. “Just listen at that bird, Tom!” whispered his wife. “He does sing sweet, don’t he?”