Nancy hitched her old cape about her high shoulders. "Good-by," she repeated, and turned away. * * * * * Robert leaned across the kitchen table, and held a legal document near the lamp. "It's marked 'Satisfaction of mortgage' on the outside," he said in a puzzled voice; "and it must be our mortgage, for it tells all about it inside; but it says"--he unfolded the paper, and read from it in his slow, husky whisper,--"'The debt--secured thereby--having been fully paid--satisfied--and discharged.' I don't see what it means." Nancy rested her elbows on the table, and looked across at him anxiously. "It must be a mistake, Robert. I never said anything to them except that we'd like to have more time." He went over the paper again carefully. "It reads very plain," he said. Then he fixed his sunken eyes on her thoughtfully. "Do you suppose, Nancy, it could be on account of what you done?" "Me!" The woman stared at him in astonishment. Suddenly Robert turned his eyes toward the ceiling, with a new light in his thin face. "Listen!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "it's raining!" There was a swift patter of heralding drops, and then a steady, rhythmical drumming on the shake roof. The man smiled, with that ineffable delight in the music which no one really knows but the tiller of the soil. Nancy opened the kitchen door and looked out into the night. "Yes," she said, keeping something out of her voice; "the wind's strong from the southeast, and it's raining steady." Nancy Watson always felt a little lonesome when it rained. She had never mentioned it, but she could not help wishing there was a shelter over the little grave on the edge of the barley-field. The Face of the Poor Mr. Anthony attached a memorandum to the letter he was reading, and put his hand on the bell. "Confound them!" he said under his breath, "what do they think I'm made of!" A negro opened the door, and came into the room with exaggerated decorum. "Rufus, take this to Mr. Whitwell, and tell him to get the answer off at once. Is any one waiting?" "Yes, suh, several. One man's been there some time. Says his name's Busson, suh." "Send him in." The man gave his head a tilt forward which seemed to close his eyes, turned pivotally about, and walked out of the room in his most luxurious manner. Rufus never imitated his employer, but he often regretted that his employer did not imitate him. Mr. Anthony's face resumed its look of prosperous annoyance. The door opened, and a small, roughly dressed man came toward the desk. "Well, here I am at last," he said in a tone of gentle apology; "I suppose you think it's about time." The annoyance faded out of Mr. Anthony's face, and left it blank. The visitor put out a work-callous hand. "I guess you don't remember me; my name's Burson. I was up once before, but you were busy. I hope you're well; you look hearty."