A boy was approaching, Jackson's son, if one could judge from the resemblance, holding a letter in his hand.
"Come right here, Abner," he called out eagerly.
Abner approached, and his father snatched the letter from his hand. It bore the New York postmark, but, on opening it, Jackson looked bitterly disappointed. He had hoped it was from Mrs. Hamilton, accepting his offer for the farm; but, instead of that, it was an unimportant circular.
"I'll have to take time to think over your offer, Mr. Taylor," he said. "You see, I'll have to talk over matters with the old woman."
"By the way," said Taylor carelessly, "I was told in the village that you didn't own the farm—that it was owned by a lady in New York."
"She used to own it," said the fanner, uneasily; "but I bought it of her a year ago."
"So that you have the right to sell it?"
"Of course I have."
"What have you to say to that, Ben?" asked Taylor quietly.
"That if Mrs. Hamilton has sold the farm to Mr. Jackson she doesn't know it."