w. Good-by."

She held out her work-hardened hand, and the young man caught it in his
warm, prosperous grasp. They looked into each other's eyes an instant,
not the mortgagor and the mortgagee, but the woman and the man.

"Good-by, Mrs. Watson. I can never"--The words died huskily in his
throat.

"Papa," called a weak, fretful little voice.

Nancy hitched her old cape about her high shoulders.

"Good-by," she repeated, and turned away.

* * * * *

Robert leaned across the kitchen table, and held a legal document near
the lamp.

"It's marked 'Satisfaction of mortgage' on the outside," he said in a
puzzled voice; "and it must be our mortgage, for it tells all about it
inside; but it says"--he unfolded the paper, and read from it in his
slow, husky whisper,--"'The debt--secured thereby--having been fully
paid--satisfied--and discharged.' I don't see what it means."

Nancy rested her elbows on the table, and looked across at him
anxiously.

"It must be a mistake, Robert. I never said anything to them except that
we'd like to have more time."

He went over the paper again carefully.

"It reads very plain," he said. Then he fixed his sunken eyes on her
thoughtfully. "Do you suppose, Nancy, it could be on account of what you
done?"

"Me!" The woman stared at him in astonishment.

Suddenly Robert turned his eyes toward the ceiling, with a new light in
his thin face.

"Listen!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "it's raining!"

There was a swift patter of heralding drops, and then a steady,
rhythmical drumming on the shake roof. The man smiled, with that
ineffable delight in the music which no one really knows but the tiller
of the soil.

Nancy opened the kitchen door and looked out into the night.

"Yes," she said, keeping something out of her voice; "the wind's strong
from the southeast, and it's raining steady."

Nancy Watson always felt a little lonesome when it rained. She had never
mentioned it, but she could not help wishing there was a shelter over
the little grave on the edge of the barley-field.

The Face of the Poor

Mr. Anthony attached a memorandum to the letter he was reading, and put
his hand on the bell.

"Confound them!" he said under his breath, "what do they think I'm made
of!"

A negro opened the door, and came into the room with exaggerated
decorum.

"Rufus, take this to Mr. Whitwell, and tell him to get the answer off at
once. Is any one wait