Troubled and anxious, Sarah went on toward home. As she turned to go up the lane she saw a man at work in the north field. Ah, Ebert had begun! Then her flying feet halted. The horses were Uncle Daniel's grays, the man was Jacob Kalb. Sarah cried out as though she had been struck. Then she saw that the fence was down. It was not a worm-fence, which could be put up again in a little while, but a stout "post and rail." The posts had been taken out. The two fields formed together a great slope which ran from the Wenners' garden to the edge of the Swartzes' yard. Sarah gathered her shawl a little closer about her and ran on. "Get out, Jacob Kalb!" she called. For a minute Jacob looked as though he meant to run. He had protested against coming to plough so near the house, for fear that Sarah might "do him something." Now he saw that Sarah did not carry a gun. He mocked her rudely. "Get out, Sarah Wenner!" "I tell you, you shall go away, Jacob Kalb," she shouted. "This is not your land." Jacob laughed. "_You_ will have to go pretty soon away," he said. Sarah could eat no dinner, but sat at the window watching. Already the boundary between the two farms was fast disappearing. How would they be able ever to find it again? What would her mother and father have said? What would William say when he came home? _When_ he came home. It was growing to be _if_ he came home in Sarah's mind. Anxiety was doing its work. She remembered things which she had heard as a child and forgotten,--her mother's sharp criticism of Daniel Swartz's meanness, her father's good-natured laughter. She did not know how easily that same dear, thoughtless father might have made it impossible for his brother-in-law to interfere with them. He might easily have provided another guardian for his children. He had meant to,--that much must be said for him,--but he was a procrastinator, and at the end there had been no time. Sarah could not go now to meet the twins when they came from school; she did not dare to leave the house. Jacob Kalb might take possession while she was away. The afternoon passed slowly. Toward evening, there was a late flurry of snow. And the twins did not come. Sarah ran part way down the lane,--they were not yet in sight,--then she went to the barn to milk, her ears straining to hear any unfriendly sound. It soothed and comforted her to be with the friendly beasts which she loved. Both "Mooley" and "Curly" had been born on the place, they were part of the living fibre of the homestead. It was fortunate that the twins called to Sarah before they ran up to the door of the barn, for another shock was more than Sarah could have borne at that moment. The twins' voices trembled with some exciting news. "She came along home with us," said Louisa Ellen. "She carried the gun for us," said Ellen Louisa. "She is waiting at the front door." "Who is waiting at the front door?" asked Sarah. Then she added fearfully, "Aunt Mena?" "No, teacher."