acres on the corner of which the store stood. It was the farm that
decided the investment; for Mr. Gwynne was possessed of the town man's
infatuation for farm life and of the optimistic conviction that on
the farm a living at least for himself and his small family would be
assured.

But his years of business in Mapleton had gradually exhausted his
fortune and accumulated a staggering load of debt which was the occasion
of moments of anxiety, even of fear, to the storekeeper. There was
always the thought in his mind that against his indebtedness on the
credit side there were his book accounts which ran up into big figures.
There was always, if the worst came to the worst, the farm. But if Mr.
Gwynne was no business man still less was he a farmer. Tied to his store
by reason of his inability to afford a competent assistant, the farming
operations were carried on in haphazard fashion by neighbours who were
willing to liquidate their store debts with odd days' work at times most
convenient to themselves, but not always most seasonable for the crops.
Hence in good years, none too good with such haphazard farming, the farm
was called upon to make up the deficiency in the financial returns
of the store. In bad years notes had to be renewed with formidable
accumulations of interest. But such was Mr. Gwynne's invincible optimism
that he met every new embarrassment with some new project giving new
promise of success.

Meanwhile during these painful years his brave little wife by her garden
and her poultry materially helped to keep the family in food and to meet
in some degree the household expenses. She was her own servant except
that the Widow Martin came to her aid twice a week. Her skill with
needle and sewing machine and a certain creative genius which she
possessed enabled her to evolve from her husband's old clothes new