For two years Indie lived quietly and comfortably in the old home, paying her simple expenses by raising garden truck for the town hotel. Then a letter came from Tom’s widow imploring his people to send her enough money to defray Tom’s funeral expenses to avert his threatened burial in the potter’s field. It was a pathetic appeal, involving the brief story of Tom’s struggles, how he had worked his way with his little family from Texas to the old home state, where he had obtained employment in a factory. He had met his death through a boiler explosion the day before the letter was written. Tom had always hoped for a reconciliation in spite of his father’s unyielding hardness, the widow wrote. In conclusion, she begged his people not to allow his body to be consigned to a nameless grave. Indie went straight to Mr. Griggs, the real estate agent, who held the four-hundred-dollar mortgage on her farm, and asked him to lend her a hundred dollars. He refused gently but firmly. “Why, Indie, by the time you sell that farm it may not be worth five hundred dollars in all,” he said. “The interest on the mortgage is about due now and here you are wanting to borrow more!” “It’s for a particular purpose that can’t wait a day,” Indie told him anxiously, trembling in every nerve with the fear of disappointment. “I can’t help that. Business is business you know, and every man must look out for his own interests. There is only one way to get that money and that is to sell the place as it stands before the debts eat it up completely. I know a party that would buy, probably.” “Oh, I couldn’t sell the only home I’ve got,” Indie said piteously. “It’ll come to that in the end, anyhow,” Griggs answered indifferently. “My advice is to get rid of it now, while there is a few dollars in it for you. Anyway, you can’t raise that hundred you want any other way. If I was in your place I’d sell and go down to Birmingham and get work in the factory, where you’ll make something besides a mere living.” Indie’s heart almost stopped beating at the very thought of leaving the old familiar haunts for a strange city. Yet, Tom must have a decent burial at any cost to herself. “What could you get for the farm?” Indie asked huskily. “Eight or nine hundred I reckon.” “Could you let me have the hundred right now if I agree to sell the place?” she asked. “Yes.” “Then I’ll sell—because I’ve got to have that money right off.” Indie hurried home and began to put things to rights. She packed up her personal belongings and moved all her humble furniture into one room, where it could be easily got at in case she should send for it a little later, if she were fortunate enough to secure steady work in the factory which Mr. Griggs had referred to. He had even given her a clipping from the Sunday paper containing an advertisement calling for twenty new hands, “experience not necessary.”