There were the same long hours in the attic
and the garden, too--but in the attic Hester discovered her treasured
wax wreath (late of the parlor wall); and in the garden Jeremiah found
more weeds than
he had ever allowed to grow there, he was sure.
The farm had been in the hands of William and Sarah Ellen just six
months when the Huntersville Savings Bank closed its doors. It was the
old story of dishonesty and disaster, and when the smoke of Treasurer
Hilton's revolver cleared away there was found to be practically nothing
for the depositors. Perhaps on no one did the blow fall with more
staggering force than on Jeremiah Whipple.
"Why, Hester," he moaned, when he found himself alone with his wife,
"here I'm seventy-eight years old--an' no money! What am I goin' ter
do?"
"I know, dear," soothed Hester; "but 't ain't as bad for us as 'tis for
some. We've got the farm, you know; an'--"
"We hain't got the farm," cut in her husband sharply. "William an' Sarah
Ellen's got it."
"Yes, I know, but they--why, they're
us, Jeremiah," reminded
Hester, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.
"Mebbe, Hester, mebbe," conceded Jeremiah; but he turned and looked out
of the window with gloomy eyes.
There came a letter to the farmhouse soon after this from Nathan Banks,
a favorite nephew, suggesting that "uncle and aunt" pay them a little
visit.
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