"A sale," said Bob. "Some farmer is going to sell out and Peabody
wants a wagon. So I have to ride that horse fourteen miles and back
--and he has a backbone like a razor blade!--to buy a wagon; that is,
if no one bids over me."

"And Mr. Peabody won't pay more than six dollars; he said so at the
supper table last night," mourned Betty. "You'll never be able to buy
a wagon for that. I wish I could go, too. Bob, I never saw a country
vendue. Please, can't I?"

"You cannot," replied Bob with unaccustomed decision. Betty usually
wheedled him into granting her requests. "Haven't I just told you
there is nothing to go in? If you see yourself perched on that raw-boned
nag with me, I don't, that's all. But I tell you what; there's
a sale to-morrow at a farm this side of Glenside--I'll take you to
that, if you like. I guess Peabody will let me off, seeing as how
there are wagons advertised. We can easily walk to Faulkner's place."

This promise contented Betty, and she ate her dinner quietly. Bob
rode off on the old horse directly after dinner, and then for the
first time Betty noticed that Mrs. Peabody seemed worried about
something.

"Don't you feel well? Won't you go upstairs and lie down and let me
do the dishes?" urged the girl. "Do, Mrs. Peabody. You can have a
nice, long rest before it's time to feed the chickens."

"I feel all right," said Mrs. Peabody dully. "Only--well, I found
this card from the new minister back of the pump this morning. It's a