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 and it seemed as if his figure, standing erect on the other side of the fence, had grown in height.

“Well, you needn’t yell at me as if I were a mere boy, or half the village will come running here,” the son said soothingly. “It’s nothing to me what he needs, but it is something to me that he is offering a thousand more than the place is really worth, and a thousand extra is mighty good money these days.”

The old man did not speak at once, but pushed his shaggy cap back on his head and with his calloused hand wiped off the sweat which had burst out on his forehead. Then he stepped to the gate which he pushed open with his foot and entered the yard. He stalked towards his son with energetic strides and grasped his stick firmly as if he intended to use it.

Pausing before his son, in deep yet sharp tones he uttered, “A thousand—you are right—is good money, providing it is honest profit!”

“And isn’t this honest, when I sell what is mine?” the young man defended himself rebelliously, irritated by his father's opposition.

The old man vainly gasped for breath enough to answer. His face turned red, then paled and purpled with emotion and wrath. Joseph saw his father's struggle, but in order to avoid looking at him, he turned away, picked up his ax and started at his work again. “Leave that alone, now, Joseph! It won’t run away!” the old man forced himself to be gentle when