Leaving Dean in Denver, let us go back to Waterford, and see how matters stood in that quiet little village.

With Adin Dunham they did not go well. He had an attack of rheumatism during the winter which hindered him from working for several weeks, and so abridged his earnings. Both he and his wife missed Dean, whose lively and cheerful temperament enlivened the house. They were troubled too because months had passed since they had heard from him.

"I don't know what has happened to Dean," said Adin one Saturday evening, when he sat beside the kitchen fire with his wife. "Seems to me he'd write if he was in good health. I am afeared something has gone wrong with the boy."

"I hope not, father," said Sarah Dunham, pausing in her knitting.

"So do I, Sarah, but you must agree that it's strange he don't write."

"That's true, Adin. He was always a thoughtful, considerate boy. The house seems lonesome without him."

"So it does, Sarah. But if I only knew he was doin' well I wouldn't mind that. He may have got sick and——"

"Don't say such things, father," said Mrs. Dunham in a tremulous voice. "I can't bear to think anything's happened to the boy."

"But we must be prepared for the worst, if so be the worst has come."

"I am sure he is alive and well," said Sarah Dunham, who was of a more hopeful temperament than her husband.

"Then why don't he write?"

"To be sure, Adin. That's something I can't explain. But Dean's healthy, and he's a good boy, who wouldn't be likely to get into mischief. Instead of being prepared for the worst, suppose we hope for the best."

"Maybe you're right, Sarah. I try to be cheerful, but since I was robbed of that thousand dollars luck seems to have been against me. And the worst of it is Sarah, I'm not getting younger. I shall be sixty-five next month."

"I'm not much behind you, Adin, as far as years go."

"I did hope that Dean would be in a position to help me when I got along in years. I mistrust I made a mistake when I let him go out West. If he'd stayed here, he might have been a good deal of help to us both."

"Still there didn't seem to be much of a prospect for the boy."

"He could have managed the farm when he got a little older."

"That is true, but it has never given you a living, Adin. You've had to depend upon your trade."

"He could have learned the same trade. A trade's a good thing for a boy to have to fall back upon."

"He may come back, and realize all your expectations, Adin. We mustn't despond till we have reason to."

"There's another thing that's worryin' me, Sarah—it's the mortgage. Next week six months' interest falls due—twenty-four dollars—and I haven't the money to meet it."

"Squire Bates won't push you, surely."

"I don't know. Once or twice lately when I met the squire he dropped a hint that he was short of money. I didn't say much, but it struck me he had an object in sayin' what he did."

"It's the first time you haven't been ready with the interest, isn't it, Adin?"

"Yes, the very first time."

"Then perhaps he will overlook it this time. You'd better manage to see him about it."

"I'll do it the first time I see him."

That time came sooner than either of them thought.

Adin Dunham had scarcely completed his sentence when a knock was heard at the door (Adin had never so far fallen in with city customs as to introduce a door bell.)

Mrs. Dunham rose and opened the door.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Dunham," said the visitor, suavely.

"Good-evening, Squire Bates," said Sarah in surprise. "Won't you walk in?"

"Yes, thank you. Is your husband at home?"

"Oh, yes, he never goes out in the evening. Adin," she said, preceding the visitor, "here is Squire Bates, who has called to see you."

"I am glad to see you, squire," said the carpenter.

"Take a chair, and excuse my gettin' up. My old enemy, the rheumatism, has got hold of me, and I'm too stiff to move easy."

"Oh, you are quite excusable, Mr. Dunham. I am sorry to hear that you are so afflicted."

"It isn't altogether comfortable. Besides, it puts me behindhand. I've lost at least four weeks this winter from these rheumatic pains."

"Ah, indeed!"

"Yes, and as you can imagine, that is a serious thing to a poor man."

"I suppose so," assented the squire, coughing.

"I am glad you came in, squire, because I wanted to speak to you about the interest on that mortgage."

"It falls due next week," said Squire Bates, promptly.

"Just so, and I am sorry to say that for the first time I shall be unable to meet it."

"Indeed!" returned the squire, his voice stiffening. "That is very unfortunate!"

"So it is, squire, but I hope, as it is the first time, you will overlook it," said Adin Dunham, anxiously.

"My dear sir," said the squire, "it is hardly necessary to say that I truly sympathize with you. You believe that, I hope?"

"I thought you would squire. I didn't believe you'd be hard on me."

"But—you misunderstand me a little, neighbor Dunham—I cannot be as considerate as I would like to be. The fact is, I am very short of money, embarrassed in fact, and I depended on that payment. Perhaps you can borrow it?"

"There's no one in the village likely to accommodate me with a loan unless it's you, squire."

"And I am very short of cash. Indeed it would hardly do for me to lend you money to pay me, would it now?"

"I am afraid not," said the carpenter, ruefully.

"In fact, neighbor Dunham, I came here this evening to ask if you couldn't arrange to pay the mortgage."

"Pay the mortgage!" echoed Adin Dunham, with a blank look.

"Yes; I thought you might raise the money in some way."

"I wish you'd tell me where, Squire Bates. Eight hundred dollars! Why it's as big to me as the national debt! I did expect to pay off the mortgage with that thousand dollars, that I was so wickedly robbed of."

"Oh, ah, to be sure! It was a great pity that you were prevented from doing it."

"That robbery broke me down, Squire Bates. I believe it has made me five years older, though it happened less than a year ago. It makes me feel kind of rebellious at times to think that such a villain as the man that robbed me should go unpunished."

"It isn't best to cry over spilt milk," said the squire who felt obviously uncomfortable under these allusions.

"I can't help thinkin' of it though, squire."

"To be sure, to be sure!"

"When it was gone, I hoped that Dean would be able to help me to pay up the mortgage some time."

"Have you heard from your nephew lately?"

"Not for months. Have you heard from the man he went out with?"

"Yes, I have heard several times."

"Does he say anything about Dean?"

"He says—but perhaps I had better not tell you. I don't want to distress you," and the squire hesitated.

"Say what you have to say. I can stand it."

"He says he discharged Dean for dishonesty."

"Dean dishonest! Why, squire, you must be jokin'."

"I am sorry to say, neighbor Dunham, that there is no joke about it. Mr. Kirby is not likely to be mistaken."

"I tell you, Squire Bates," said Adin Dunham angrily, "that my nephew Dean is as honest as I am myself. The man that charges him with dishonesty is a liar! It's a word I don't often use, but I must use it this time."

"I agree with my husband," said Sarah Dunham, her mild blue eye sparkling with indignation. "Nothing would induce Dean to steal."

"Of course you are prejudiced in your nephew's favor," said the squire with a slight sneer. "It is very natural, but you can't expect others to agree with you. However, we will drop this subject. I am afraid Dean will never be able to help you. I used to think well of him, though my son Brandon didn't agree with me."

"What can your son Brandon know of Dean compared with mother and me, who have known the boy since his birth?" the carpenter rejoined warmly.

"I won't argue the question, neighbor Dunham. Indeed I feel for you in your disappointment. But to come back to business. You mustn't blame me if I foreclose the mortgage, as the law gives me a right to do. I wouldn't do it, I assure you, if circumstances did not make it imperative."

"Foreclose the mortgage!" repeated Adin in consternation.

"Yes, or I'll give you eight hundred dollars for the place over and above the mortgage."

"Only eight hundred dollars! Why, that would be robbery!"

"Think it over, neighbor Dunham, and don't decide hastily. You'll think differently, I am sure, when you have had time to consider it. I must bid you good-evening now, as I am in haste," and the squire rose quickly, and left the room, followed to the door mechanically and in silence by Sarah Dunham.

"Sarah," said the carpenter with grief-stricken countenance, "this is worse than all. It looks as if we were indeed forsaken by Providence."

"Hush, Adin! That is wicked. It looks hard, but the Lord may yet give us deliverance."

"I am afraid we shall end our days in the poorhouse, Sarah," said the husband gloomily.

"It won't be this year or next, Adin. Eight hundred dollars will support us for two years, and then there is your work besides. Let us look on the bright side!"

But that was not easy for either of them. It seemed to Adin Dunham that his cup of bitterness was full.