"Why?" asked both the girls at once.

"The postmaster says it has been stopped."

"Stopped!" How changed were their faces and tones of voice.

"Yes. He says your father directed it to be stopped."

"That must be a mistake," said Margaret. "He would have told us."

Mr. Markland rode on, and the girls ran back into the house.

"Father, the postmaster says you have stopped the newspaper!"
exclaimed his daughters, breaking in upon Mr. Ashburn's no very
pleasant reflections on the low price of wheat, and the difference
in the return he would receive at ninety cents a bushel to what he
would have realized at the last year's price of a dollar
twenty-five.

"It's true," he replied, trenching himself behind a firm, decided
manner.

"But why did you stop it, father?" inquired the girls.

"Because I can't afford to take it. It's as much, as I shall be able
to do to get you enough to eat and wear this year."

Mr. Ashburn's manner was decided, and his voice had a repelling
tone.

Margaret and Phoebe could say no more; but they did not leave their
father's presence without giving his eyes the benefit of seeing a
free gush of tears. It would be doing injustice to Mr. Ashburn's
state of mind to say that he felt very comfortable, or had done so,
since stopping the "Post," an act for which he had sundry times more
than half repented. But, as it had been done, he could not think of
recalling it.

Very sober were the faces that surrounded the supper-table that
evening; and but few words were spoken. Mr. Ashburn felt oppressed,
and also fretted to think that his daughters should make both
themselves and him unhappy about the trifle of a newspaper, when he
had such serious troubles to bear.

On the next Saturday, as Mr. Ashburn was walking over his farm, he
saw a man sitting on one of his fences, dressed in a jockey-cap, and
wearing a short hunting-coat. He had a rifle over his shoulder, and
carried a powder-flask, shot and bird bags. In fact, he was a fully
equipped sportsman, a somewhat _rara avis_ in those parts.

"What's this lazy fellow doing here?" said Ashburn, to himself. "I
wonder where he comes from?"

"Good morning, neighbour," spoke out the stranger, in a familiar
way, as soon as the farmer came within speaking distance. "Is there
any good game about here? Any wild-turkeys, or pheasants?"

"There are plenty of squirrels," returned Ashburn, a little
sarcastically, "and the woods are full of robbins."

"Squ