The market was in Post Office Square, and almost every foot of space was occupied by some man or woman with something to sell. Indians, negroes, country people--it was a motley crowd and well worth seeing. The Indians for the most part sat on the sidewalk, bent over their wares, though here and there one or two leaned back against a building. "We saw Indians like these at Bear River," said Priscilla, "only a little better dressed,--perhaps because it was a holiday. But these baskets are the best I've seen this summer." Baskets and sweet grass were the stock in trade of these Indians, and some of the baskets were of odd designs and really artistic shapes. "Do you really like them?" asked Lucian, and almost in the next breath he had laid three or four of the prettiest in Priscilla's arms. "For Martine?" asked Priscilla. "No, no, for you,--if you'll take them. There, let me carry them. I did not mean to load you down. Only I thought I might see something else." "Oh, nothing more now, thank you. You are very kind, but these are really almost too much, and I can carry them myself--" An old negro at this moment crossed their path, swinging a cane. They realized his nearness only when a sudden flourish of the stick sent Priscilla's baskets flying into the street. The negro, apologizing profusely, hastened to help Lucian collect the baskets, and Priscilla was pleased that Lucian showed no anger at the man's carelessness. Instead, he began an animated conversation with the old fellow, and returned to Priscilla's side smiling broadly. "The old man has been praising his son's wife's vegetables so warmly that we'll just have to go over there to see them. She is the fat darkey sitting in that cart yonder, and I hope we'll get off without buying her out." The next moment Lucian was laughing and chaffering with the old negro's son's wife, and Priscilla gasped as she saw him pointing out turnips, carrots, and even summer squashes. She did not know him well enough to protest, and she only wondered how he meant to get the things home. "They're all mine," he called to Priscilla, as she waited for him a short distance from the cart. Then he leaned over toward the old man and said something, and the negro hobbled off, smiling. In a moment he returned with a large pail, into which his son's wife heaped Lucian's purchases. "There," said Lucian, as he returned to Priscilla's side, "won't Mrs. Redmond and the others stare when they behold this load?" and he lifted the pail that Priscilla might the more readily admire its contents. "But you don't intend to carry it through the streets?" There was a question in Priscilla's tone. Lucian glanced at her curiously. He had just been thinking how companionable she was, and now this Plymouth girl was going to show herself as narrow and conventional as others. "I needn't carry it," he responded. "Perhaps Sambo here--is your name Sambo?" "No, sir, my name's Mr. Malachai Robertson."