“My wife is quite sick,” said he. “Had the doctor twice and have got to have him again, I reckon.”

 

“I hope she recovers soon,” said our hero, sympathetically.

 

“Oh, I think she’ll be all right by next week. But it’s a big expense to me. And in that heavy wind the other night my chimney blew down, and that has got to be fixed¹, which means more money out of my pocket.”

 

“Does the farm pay?”

 

“I could make it pay if I had money to buy more cows and an extra horse. But I haven’t the money, and folks around here don’t care to trust a fellow.”

 

“I’m going to look over those books again to-night,” went on Frank. “If I can make anything out of them, I’ll give you half.”

 

“Why, I ain’t entitled to nothing more. A bargain is a bargain,” said the young farmer, in surprise.

 

“Never mind—I’ve not forgotten how you assisted me on the road.”

 

“That puts me in mind. Those boys are in trouble for keeps now. They robbed an orchard² of some extra fine pears, and the owner gave each of ’em a tremendous walloping.”

 

“Well, they deserved it,” answered Frank.

 

Having eaten his supper, Frank went directly to his room, and got out the bundle of books he had procured³ from Samuel Windham. He piled the volumes on the table and began to look them over. There were four histories, an atlas⁴, and several volumes of poetry.

 

“The histories won’t bring much—they are too much worn,” thought the young book agent.

 

“But this book of Longfellow’s poems may——Goodness gracious me!”

 

Frank fairly gasped⁵ the last words, and his eyes

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