"That's fine!" The old man's face brightened. "I could do that work—it's not hard. But I don't see how I'm to get up the mountain," and his face fell again.
"Has anybody been here since I went away?"
"Yes; Aaron Poole's son,—a very high-toned young man. He drove up in a fancy cart to tell me that his father would be here to-morrow morning for the interest on the mortgage."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I—I told him I couldn't pay up just yet—that he must wait a little."
"And what did he say to that?"
"His nose went up into the air and he said I must pay. That if I didn't his father was going to have the place sold. He was very lordly and—and somewhat abusive."
"Abusive? What do you mean by that?"
"He—he said his father was foolish to trust his money to such a—a—crazy, good-for-nothing fellow as myself. Caspar Potts' lips quivered as he spoke. "He said I was a—a lunatic, and ought to be in an asylum."
"I wish Nat Poole would mind his own business," cried Dave. "If I ever meet him I'll give him a piece of my mind."
"I am not crazy, am I, Dave?" asked the old professor, anxiously. "Tell me truly, lad?"
"No, you are not crazy, and I don't think you
