thrown it away. Wentworth had shouldered his duties manfully; he had been blind to them. But it was not too late to do something. He was being led as by Marley's ghost to one new vision of life after another. He saw love--with death grinning over love's shoulder; he was to be given a taste of fatherhood,--the grave at his feet. "Do you ever hear from the people back home?" he asked abruptly. "Not very often," she answered. "After the old folks went I sorter got out of tech with the others." "What became of the homestead?" "It was sold little by little when father was sick. When he died there was n't much left. That went to pay the debts." "Who lives there now?" "Let me see--I don't think any one is there now. Last I heard, it was fer sale." "Who holds it?" "Deacon Staples. Leastways it was him who held the notes." "That old pirate? No wonder there was n't anything left." "He _was_ a leetle hard," she admitted. "I wanted Jim to go back an' take it after father died, but he couldn't seem to make a deal with the deacon." "I s'pose not. No one this side of the devil himself will ever make a square deal with him. He 's still as strong in the church as ever?" She smiled. "I see by the Berringdon paper that he begun some revival meetin's in town." "Which means he 's just put through some particularly thievish deal and wants to ease his conscience. Have you the paper? Perhaps the sale is advertised there." She found the paper and ran a finger down the columns until she came to the item. "Makes you feel sort of queer," she said, "to see the old place for sale. Almost like slaves must ha' felt to see their own in the market." She read slowly,