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Mrs. Burson laid the overalls she was mending across her knee in a suggestive attitude.

“I don’t call it close-fisted or overreachin’ to keep a roof over your family’s head,” she argued; “if the place isn’t ours, I suppose we’ll have to leave it.”

“No; Mr. Anthony wants us to stay here, and take care of the place for the rent. I feel as if I’d ought to keep it up better, but if I’m to peddle fruit and try to pay off the note, I’ll have to hustle. I want to do the square thing by him. He’s certainly treated me white.”

Mrs. Burson fitted a patch on the seat of the overalls, and flattened it down with rather unnecessarily vigorous slaps of her large hand.

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over Mr. Anthony; I guess he’s able to take care of himself,” she said, closing her lips suddenly as if to prevent the escape of less amicable sentiments.

“Well, he doesn’t seem to be,” urged her husband, “the way Edmonson’s overreached him. My! but I’d hate to be in that fellow’s shoes: doin’ dirt to a man that a way!”

Mrs. Burson sighed audibly, and gave her husband a hopelessly uncomprehending look. “You do beat all, Erastus,” she said wearily. “Here’s your overalls. I guess you can be trusted with ’em. They’re too much patched to give to Mr. Anthony.”

Burson returned her look of uncomprehension. Fortunately the marital fog through which two pairs of eyes so often view each other is more likely to dull the outline of faults than of virtues. Mrs. Burson watched her husband not unfondly as he straddled into his overalls and left the room.

“A man doesn’t have to be very sharp to get the better of Erastus,” she said to herself, “but he has to be awful low down; and I s’pose there’s plenty that is.”

The winter came smilingly on, tantalizing the farmer with sunny indifference concerning drouth, and when he was quite despondent sending great purple clouds from the southeast to wash away his fears. By Christmas the early oranges were yellowing. There had been no frost, and Burson’s old spring-wagon and unshapely but well-fed sorrel team made their daily round of the valley, and now and then he dropped into Mr. Anthony’s office to make small payments on his note. Pitifully small they seemed to the mortgagee, who appeared nevertheless always glad to receive them, and gave orders to Rufus, much to that dignitary’s disgust, that the fruit-vender should always be admitted. The handful of coin which he so cheerfully piled on the corner of the rich man’s desk always remained there until his departure, when Mr. Anthony took an envelope from the safe, swept the payment into it without counting, and returned it to its compartment, making no indorsement on the note.

“I’d feel better satisfied if you’d drive out some time and take a look at things,” said Burson to his creditor during one of these visits; “you’d ought to get out of the office now and then for your health.”

“Maybe I will, Burson,” replied the capitalist. “You’re not away from home all the time?”

“Oh, no, but I s’pose Sunday’s your day off; it’s mine. Mother and the girls generally go to church, but I don’t. I tell ‘m I’ll watch, and they can pray. I can’t very well go,” he added, making haste to counteract the possible shock from his irreverence; “there ain’t but one seat in the fruit-wagon, and when the women folks get their togs on, three’s about all that can ride. Come out any Sunday, and stay for dinner. We mostly have chicken.”

The following Sunday Mr. Anthony drew up his daintily-stepping chestnut at the fruit-peddler’s gate. Before he had descended from his shining road-wagon, his host ran down the walk, pulling on his shabby coat.

“Well, now, this is something like!” he exclaimed. “Got a hitching-strap? Just wait till I open the gate; I believe I’d better take your horse inside. There’s a post by the kitchen door. My, ain’t he a beauty!”