We arrived early in the afternoon and walked up
from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express
wagon. As we approached our dear home, we wanted to run, we were
so eager to see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate
was locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too.
Just then I noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but
the lettering was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It
read:
TO BE SOLD
For TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
"What does this mean?" said I. "Has our landlord--"
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place
might pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I
did not put the thought in words. There was a field next to our
lot, and I got over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we
climbed our side-fence. This was more difficult, but we
accomplished it without thinking much about its difficulties; our
hearts were too full of painful apprehensions. I hurried to the
front door; it was locked. All the lower windows were shut. We
went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than anything
else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had HE been sold?
Before we reached the back part of the house, Euphemia said she
felt faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under
which I had made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on
the grass and I ran to the pump for some water.
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