“Miss Barb’ry,” he began, “why in creation didn’t ye tell me what you was goin’ t’ do? Sellin’ yourself—sellin’ your own flesh an’ blood, like you was an Aferc’n slave! What d’you s’pose your folks ’d a said t’ what took place in this ’ere house t’-day—huh? I’ll bet your grandmother Preston ’d think you’d gone crazy. Where be you goin’? What you goin’ t’ do with th’ Cap’n? Whar do I come in in this ’ere deal? Them’s questions ’at I want answered right now. I’ve a notion,” he added darkly, “that you be kind o’ cracked. ’N’ I don’t wonder at it much.” Barbara was putting the furniture in place, straightening the rugs, and otherwise restoring to its wonted order the scene of the recent auction. Her cheeks and lips were bright with color; her eyes sparkled as she faced the old man. “You are entirely mistaken, Peg,” she said impatiently. “Just listen, will you? If I had waited a few days longer we should have been sold out under the hammer—farm, house, furniture, stock. Now we shan’t be. Do you understand? This very day I’m going to settle with the Honorable Stephen Jarvis [her red lips curled a little over the words], and I’ll pay Abe Hewett, too, and all the others. Oh! I’m glad I did it—glad! Jimmy will have the farm, and there’ll be plenty left to fix the fences, and buy the fertilizers we need and mend the broken roof and maybe paint the house. Don’t you see, Peg, what a splendid thing it will be?” “But where are you goin’, Miss Barb-ry?” The old man’s voice held the sound of tears. “An’ who’s goin’ to take care o’ the Cap’n?” Barbara compressed her lips sternly. “I don’t know where I shall go,” she said, “but wherever I am I can write to—to Jimmy; and Peg, I want you to stay, just as you have; only I shall pay you good wages. I shall pay up all that I owe you, too, and——” “Will I hev charge o’ the Cap’n?” inquired the old man anxiously. “Five years is a long time, Miss Barb’ry, he’ll be—l’ me see. W’y, the Cap’n ’ll be ’leven years old time you’re at liberty.” Barbara drew her fine dark brows together. “I’ve engaged Martha Cottle to come here and keep house and take care of Jimmy,” she said. “She’s coming this afternoon.” Mr. Morrison’s jaw dropped. “Marthy Cottle!” he ejaculated. “W’y, that female—she don’t know no more ’bout little boys ’an—’an a Holstein steer. She’s an old maid schoolmarm, cut an’ dried.” “She can help Jimmy with his lessons,” Barbara said doggedly. “She’s good and honest, and she’ll do her best to——” “Gosh!” murmured the old man, shaking his head. “She’ll do her best, mebbe, but—wall, I’ll do what I kin fer the Cap’n t’—keep him f’om gittin’ too awful lonesome an’ discouraged. Marthy Cottle! Huh! We’ll hev t’ make out the best we kin after you’re gone. Does—the Cap’n know—hev you tol’ him you’re a-goin leave him?” “No,” said Barbara, in a harsh voice. “I haven’t, and I don’t intend to, either. I—I’ll leave word. I—couldn’t, Peg.” Her young voice broke in an irrepressible sob.