"Four hundred and fifty dollars!" re-echoes the man of feeling. "What good democrats you are! Why, gentlemen, it's not half the value of them. You must look upon this property in a social light; then you will see its immense value. It's intelligent, civil, and promisingly handsome; sold for no fault, and here you are hesitating on a small bid. "Only four hundred and fifty dollars for such property, in this enlightened nineteenth century!" "Trade will out, like murder. Squire wouldn't sell 'em to nobody but a deacon a few minutes ago!" is heard coming from a voice in the crowd. The vender again pauses, blushes, and contorts his face: he cannot suppress the zest of his profession; it is uppermost in his feelings. Romescos says it is one of the squire's unconscious mistakes. There is no use of humbugging; why not let them run off to the highest bidder? "The deacon has bid upon them; why not continue his advance?" says Mr. Seabrook, who has been smoking his cigar the while. "Oh, well! seein' how it's the deacon, I won't stand agin his bid. It's Deacon Staggers of Pineville; nobody doubts his generosity," ejaculates Romescos, in a growling tone. The bids quicken,--soon reach six hundred dollars. "Getting up pretty well, gentlemen! You must not estimate this property upon their age: it's the likeliness and the promise." "Six hundred and twenty-five!" mutters the strange gentleman they call Deacon Staggers from Pineville. "All right," rejoins Romescos; "just the man what ought to have 'em. I motion every other bidder withdraw in deference to the deacon's claim," rejoins Romescos, laughing. The clever vender gets down from the stand, views the young property from every advantageous angle, dwells upon the bid, makes further comments on its choiceness, and after considerable bantering, knocks them down to-"What name, sir?" he enquires, staring at the stranger vacantly. "Deacon Staggers," replies the man, with a broad grin. Romescos motions him aside,--slips a piece of gold into his hand; it is the price of his pretensions. The clerk enters his name in the sales book: "Deacon Staggers, of Pineville, bought May 18th, 18-. "Two children, very likely: boy, prime child, darkish hair, round figure, intelligent face, not downcast, and well outlined in limb. Girl, very pretty, bluish eyes, flaxen hair, very fair and very delicate. Price 625 dollars. Property of Hugh Marston, and sold per order of the sheriff of the county, to satisfy two fi fas issued from the Court of Common Pleas, &c. &c. &c." An attendant now steps forward, takes the children into his charge, and leads them away. To where? The reader may surmise to the gaol. No, reader, not to the gaol; to Marco Graspum's slave-pen,--to that pent-up hell where the living are tortured unto death, and where yearning souls are sold to sink!