"Selling the farm?" gasped Mrs. Hamon, doubtful of her own hearing. For
selling the farm is the very last resource of the utterly unfortunate.
"Aye, selling the farm. Why not? It'll all come back twenty times over
when we strike the pockets, and then we can live where we will, or we
can go across to Guernsey, or to England if you like."

But Mrs. Hamon was silent and full of thought. She had no desire for
wealth, and still less to live in Guernsey or in England, or anywhere in
the world but Sark.

He had been a good husband to her on the whole, until this silver craze
absorbed him. She had never found it necessary to counter his wishes
before. But this idea of selling the farm cut to the very roots of her
life.

For Nance's sake and Bernel's she must oppose it with all that was in
her. If the farm were sold the money would all go into those gaping
black mouths and bottomless pits at Port Gorey. The home would be broken
up--an end of all things. It must not be.

"I should think many times before selling the farm if I were you," she
said quietly, and left it there for the moment.

But old Tom, having made up his mind, and the necessities of the case
pressing, lost no time over the matter.

"I've been speaking to John Guille about that business," he said, next
day, in a confidently casual way.