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“If Miss Sullivan doesn’t buy it, I will,” said Ira quickly. “Can you tell me where she is to be found, so that I can have inquiry made what her decision is? This is just the spot I should like to buy—it is a good lonely place, where I can escape from my friends,—if I ever make any,” he added, in a half-voice and rather bitterly.

“She came with a grist o’ folks from York,” said Dempster; “pretty good folks, but different kind to her. Mirandy had their names on a paper, but it got lost. But she said she’d write about the farm an’ I kin let you know. Wal, if you want to go in the mornin’ I must go over an’ tell Jake. I’ll be gone to the other field when you start; so good-bye.”

He gave Waddy a crushing grasp of the hand and looked at him wistfully, as if he were recalling his son through this one who had seen him last. Then, feeling that tears—tears of that better manhood which men call unmanly—were falling over his brown cheeks, now hollow with fatigue and sleepless grief, he unclosed his hand with grave gentleness and walked slowly away.