He came into the kitchen, two evenings later, from the parlor. His father sat by the table, reading his paper. His mother pottered about the turf fire, teasing it into flame. In a corner Joe sat, polishing the barrel of a breech-loading fowling-piece with an old rag. His father caught the glimpse of paper in his hand.  
"Were you writing, Willie John?"
 
"Ay," Grant answered; "I was writing a letter to America."
 
He moved toward the fireplace and turned slowly about again to his father.
 
"You were saying," he asked, "that that place of McKenna's was for sale. I wonder how much he 'd want for it."
 
"He 'd take four thousand pounds," his father answered. "Maybe less."
 
"I 'm afraid I have n't got that much." Grant shook his head. "I 've only two thousand."
 
"We can lend you the difference, Willie John," Joe broke in. He squinted down the barrel of the rifle. "Can't we, Dad?"
 
"Ay sure!" his father answered.
 
"I 'm much obliged to both of you," Grant said.
 
He reached for his hat.
 
&q............