In the summer, almost the first minute that John came home, he put on his old clothes and went out to the field to work. But his course was to be long and Isabelle’s must contain all the music she could get, so Abbie began figuring in what ways she could help the two more. After several weeks of thinking it over and consulting the boys, she took Oscar Lutz’s offer for eighty acres or half the farm. Oscar paid her one thousand dollars in cash and gave his note for the other three thousand.

“It’s not good business to sell for that,” Abbie said. “I think land’s going to be higher some day, but it’s now that the children need a little help. I can get along. With the chickens and eggs and butter and my pension money, I can keep things going.”

The crops were poor again, the drought of the year before almost repeated. In spite of the general depression Henry end Sarah Lutz went away on a trip back to the World’s Fair at Chicago. Henry had many irons in the fire, a blacksmith shop, his store, the farms. He and Oscar seemed to get along. They always “came out of the big end of the horn,” people said. Sarah looked dressy when she started away. She had a flaring black skirt and white shirt-waist and a stiff black hat which she told Abbie was a genuine Knox sailor.

“So’s mine,” said Abbie, good-naturedly. She took off her own shabby old hat and twirled it on her hand. “Hard knocks.”

When Sarah came back, she had some little garnet earrings and a half-dozen spoons with the Fair buildings engraved on them and pictures of the Infanta Eulalie from Spain and Mrs. Potter Palmer.

In September, Abbie left Grace, nearly five now, with Sarah and went up to Lincoln to be with Margaret. She drove the team and took along the feed for it to save the two-dollar train fare that would pay for four music lessons for Isabelle.

She got up at three and had started at four. Hours later, at Stevens Creek bridge, she rested the team under some cottonwoods and ate breakfast out of a shoe box. It showered during the last three miles and the wheels threw mud and the buggy almost mired.

The Bakers had moved into a house with a yard and a stable. Dr. Baker’s practice was picking up, although fees were hard to collect. The hard times permeated into all businesses.

Abbie walked the floor in an agony of sympathy for Margaret. “I went through this six times,” she thought, “but this is harder than any of them.” Sometimes she slipped into the bedroom. “Mother’s here, Margaret,” she said, cheerfully, “keep up your courage.”

And then the Bakers had a son,—Fred, Jr., they called him.

At home again, Abbie found everything all right. Christine had milked the two cows and had taken care of the pigs and chickens. The farm activities, thanks to the Reinmuellers, had gone right on. Only the clock had stopped.