"No, no," she answered, "oh, no; but, Christopher, it is the next worse thing."
He thought for a breath. "Then she has found out?"
"It's not that either," she shook her head. "Oh, Christopher, it's Fletcher!"
"It's Fletcher! What in thunder have we to do with Fletcher?"
"You remember the deed of trust on the place—the three hundred dollars we borrowed when mother was sick. Fletcher has bought it from Tom Spade and he means to foreclose it in a week. He has advertised the farm at the cross-roads."
He paled with anger. "Why, I saw Tom about it three days ago," he said, striking the rotten fence rail until it broke and fell apart; "he told me it could run on at the same interest."
"It's since then that Fletcher has bought it. He meant it as a surprise, of course, to drive us out whether or no, but Sam Murray came straight up to tell you."
He stood thinking hard, his eyes on the waving goldenrod in the old field.
"I'll sell the horses," he said at last.
"And starve? Besides, they wouldn't bring the money."