Doctor Prescott never smiled with his eyes, but only with a symmetrical curving and lengthening of his finely cut, thin lips.  He smiled so then.  “Yes, I am willing to take some land for the debt, since you have not the money,” said he.

“But—­that was—­father’s land.”

“Yes, and your father was a good, thrifty man.  He did not waste his substance.”

“It was grandfather’s, too.”

“Yes, it was, I believe.”

“It has always been in our—­family.  It’s the Upham—­land.  I can’t part with it nohow.”

“I will take the money, then,” said Doctor Prescott.

“I’ll raise it just as soon as I can, doctor,” cried John Upham, eagerly.  “I’ve got a man’s note for twenty dollars comin’ due in three months; he’s sure to pay.  An’—­there’s some cedar ordered, an’—­”

“I must have it next week,” said the doctor, “or—­” He paused.  “I shall dislike to proceed to extreme measures,” he added.

Then John Upham, aroused to boldness by desperation, as the very oxen will sometimes run in madness if the goad be sharp enough, told Doctor Prescott to his face, with scarce a stumble in his speech, that he owned half the town now; that his land was much more valuable than his, which was mostly swampy woodland and pasture-lands, bringing in scarcely enough income to feed and clothe his family.

“Sha’n’t have ’nough to live on if I let any on’t go,” said John Upham, “an’ you’ve got more land as ’tis than any other man in town.”

Doctor Prescott did not raise or quicken his clear voice; his eyes did not flash, but they gave out a hard light.  John Upham was like a giant before this little, neat, wiry figure, which had such a majesty of port that it seemed to throw its own shadow over him.

“We are not discussing the extent of my possessions,” said Doctor Prescott, “but the extent of your debts.”  He moved aside, as if to clear the passage to the door, turning slightly at the same time towards his other caller, who was cold with indignation upon John Upham’s account and terror upon his own.

Half minded he was, when John Upham went out, with his clamping, clumsy tread, with his honest head cast down, and no more words in his mouth for the doctor’s last smoothly scathing remark, to follow him at a bound and ask nothing for himself; but he stood still and watched him go.

When John Upham had opened the door and was passing through, the doctor pursued him with yet one more bit of late advice.  “It is poor judgment,” said Doctor Prescott, “for a young man to marry and bring children into the world until he has property enough to support them without running into debt.  You would have done better had you waited, Mr. Upham.  It is what I always tell young men.”

Then John Upham turned with the last turn of the trodden worm.  “My wife and my children are my own!” he cried out, with a great roar.  “It’s between me and my Maker, my having ’em, and I’ll answer to no man for it!” With that he was gone, and the door shut hard after him.