ortune elsewhere. He
vowed he wouldn't any longer submit to the penurious ways of the squire.
So the old man was left alone, but he did not feel the solitude. He had
his gold, and that was company enough. A time was coming when the two
must part company, for when death should come he must leave the gold
behind; but he did not like to think of that, putting away the idea
as men will unpleasant subjects. This was the man to whom Hiram Walton
applied for help in his misfortune.

"Is the squire at home?" he asked, at the back door. In that household
the front door was never used. There was a parlor, but it had not been
opened since Mrs. Green's funeral.

"He's out to the barn," said Hannah Green, a niece of the old man, who
acted as maid of all work.

"I'll go out there."

The barn was a few rods northeast of the house, and thither Mr. Walton
directed his steps.

Entering, he found the old man engaged in some light work.

"Good morning, Squire Green."

"Good morning, Mr. Walton," returned the squire.

He was a small man, with a thin figure, and a face deep seamed with
wrinkles, more so than might have been expected in a man of his age, for
he was only just turned of sixty; but hard work, poor and scanty food
and sharp calculation, were responsible for them.

"How are you gettin' on?" asked the squire.

This was rather a favorite question of his, it being so much the custom
for his neighbors to apply to him when in difficulties, so that their
misfortune he had come to regard as his harvests..

"I've met with a loss," answered Hiram Walton.

"You don't say so," returned the squire, with instant attention. "What's
happened?"

"My cow is dead."

"When did she die?"

"This morning."

"What was the matter?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice but that she was welt enough last
night; but this morning when I went out to the barn, she was lying down
breathing heavily."

"What did you do?"

"I called in Elihu Perkins, and we worked over her for three hours; but
it wasn't of any use; she died half an hour ago."

"I hope it isn't any disease that's catchin'," said the squire in alarm,
thinking of his ten. "It would be a bad job if it should get among
mine."

"It's a bad job for me, squire. I hadn't but one cow, and she's gone."

"Just so, just so. I s'pose you'll buy another."

"Yes, I must have a cow. My children live on bread and milk mostly.
Then there's the butter and cheese, that I trade off at the stor