"What did he say?" "He said he wouldn't. Told me I had to have it all or he'd foreclose." "And take the farm away from us?" "That's what it would mean. He's been wanting it ever since he heard what a fine barley crop I raised." "What will you do?" "I don't know. I've tried my best to get the whole sum together, but I don't see how I can rake up another dollar. We have to live, and I can't touch the money I have put away for winter." "Maybe we could get along on less than usual," suggested Mrs. Crosby. "No, it's little enough as it is. I've calculated very closely, and the sum I have saved for winter is barely enough as it is. If anything happens, or one of us gets sick, there'll not be enough. I was thinking I might get something to do in the village, or over in Rossmore, but I can't leave you and Nettie here alone to look after the farm. I might sell the horse, but it would not bring much now. Nobody wants to keep a horse through the winter. I declare, I don't know what to do. Prospects are pretty dismal." "If we had the boys home now, maybe they could get work somewhere, and help out." "No, on the whole I'm glad the boys have gone out West. Their gold hunting may not amount to much--likely it won't--but it will be a good thing for them. They needed a little change from the drudgery of always working on a farm. Of course, if they were here they'd help, but they're not, and I'll not wish them back before they've had a fair chance, though I'd like to see them, for I miss them considerably." "So do I," added his wife. "And I wish they were home," added Nettie. "I haven't had a good game of checkers since Will went away." "I reckon they've got other things besides checkers to think about now," said her father. Two or three weeks passed. Mr. Crosby did his best to raise the additional money needed toward the interest on the mortgage, and as a last resort he had to sell his mowing machine. How he would get along the following summer, without it, he did not know, but he hoped better times would come. At any rate it was imperative that he have the interest, or he might lose his farm. It was coming on cool weather. The last of the crops had been gathered in, though in this work the farmer sadly missed the help of his two sturdy boys. One frosty morning, he got up early to go out and feed the pigs, on which he depended for his own pork, and which he hoped he would have enough of to sell at a profit. There was a curious silence in the pen, for, usually, the porkers were squealing from the first show of daylight until they received their breakfast. "That's rather queer," said Mr. Crosby to himself, as he neared the pig-pen, with a pail of warm sour milk, which the porkers usually got first. "I wonder why they aren't squealing their heads off as they always are?" When he got to the pen he saw the cause for the silence. Stretched out on the ground were six fine pigs, all dead.