“And here am I,” continued Uncle Jerry piteously, “Sixty-five years old, at least, discharged by those sleek villains, the Baldwins, because I dared to champion the policemen, and obliged to walk six miles a day to work, and then,--only think of it,--this slender body and these weak hands to build stone wall all day. The only work I can get to do with these little hands is to lift and tug at heavy stone all day. Merciful God! What shall I do? I can’t stand this work a great while. My back is almost broken. These thin arms are as sore as boils. These little hands are covered with blisters. And my poor, dear girl pining for the fresh air. That horse that Zack Baldwin ordered shot to-day, might have saved my daughter’s life. What does he care? He will kill me, in time, too, for I can’t walk six miles and build stone wall all day, and follow it up a great while.” And Uncle Jerry paced the floor in agony, his face drawn and white, and wringing his small, thin hands. “You have a fine house, Uncle Jerry,” said Mrs. Wycliff. “Yes; but we can’t eat or drink it, or if we could, how long would it last? If I began to use up the value of my home how long would it be before I should be ‘on the town?’” “But I mean could you not rent furnished rooms?” “No; Pet is so nervous I can hardly live with her myself, much less have strangers in the same house with her. We try to economize, but economy is difficult to practice with sickness. There is only one thing I can do. I must sell my place, and buy a little farm back in the country again. I was born under king-rule. I am not going to die under it.” “But you are not able to do the work on a farm,” protested Mrs. Wycliff, “or even if you are able to do it to-day you will not be able to do it long. Your wife and daughters used to help you a great deal on the farm. They are not able to do it now. I think I know of a better arrangement.” “What is it?” asked Uncle Jerry, much as a drowning man might grasp at a straw. “You have a good house, which would bring you in a large rent. Then you could get a job at superintending a small farm. You would not need to work, yourself, any more than you felt able to.” “Who would give old Jerry Barnaby a job as a farm boss, especially when he could not get a recommend from the Baldwins? Don’t try to fool a poor old man. It’s cruel, and besides it isn’t like you, either, John Wycliff.” And Uncle Jerry looked reproachfully at the younger man. “It’s no fooling, Uncle Jerry,” said Wycliff rising, and placing his hands on Barnaby’s shoulders. “Do you know the Twin Mountain Farm?” “Every rod of it.” “Now, if you are not too steep with your price, you can take charge of that farm. You will have your fuel, vegetables, meat, maple sugar--indeed, most of your living off the farm. You will not need a very big cash salary, along with your rent, to take care of you and your family in good shape, and your wife and daughter will have a horse to drive whenever they wish.”