Winthrop was silent.
"I can't meet the interest on it; —I haven't been able to pay any these five years," said Mr. Landholm with a sigh. "If he don't foreclose, I must. — I guess I'll take Asahel and go to the West."
"Don't do it hastily, father."
"No," said Mr. Landholm with another sigh; — "but it'll come to that."
Winthrop had no power to help it. And the money had been borrowed for him and Rufus. Most for Rufus. But it had been for them; and with this added thought of sorrowful care, he reached Mannahatta with his little sister.
It was early of a cold spring day, the ground white with a flurry of snow, the air raw, when he brought Winnie from the steamboat and led her, half frightened, half glad, through the streets to her new home. Winnie's tongue was very still, her eyes very busy. Her brother left the eyes to make their own notes and comments, at least he made none, till they had reached the corner of Little South St. He made none then; the door was opened softly, and he brought her up the stairs and into his room without disturbing or falling in with anybody. Putting her on a calico-covered settee, Winthrop pulled off his coat and set about making a fire.
Winnie had cried all the day before and as much of the night as her poor eyelids could keep awake; and now in a kind of lull, sat watching him.
"Governor, you'll catch cold —"
"Not if I can make the fire catch," said he quietly.
"But you wanted me to keep on my things."