“Well, all the red tape isn’t finished yet. I just say I’ve adopted her when people come here for babies because they always pick the prettiest first. And Leggy’s turned out so clever I could better afford to lose some of the older, homelier ones——” Mrs. Theddon saw the psychological moment had arrived. “Miss Howland,” she announced firmly, “I want that child badly. But I don’t want her badly enough to haggle over her. I’ll write you a check this moment for a thousand dollars—and not another cent more. But it’s on the understanding that all the legalities are settled by you with the trustees and the girl is delivered at my home before the coming Saturday!” If Mrs. Theddon had drawn a revolver and shot the Howland person, the latter could not have sat more totally and adequately stunned. “A—thou—sand—dol—lars!” “Exactly. A thousand dollars!” Mrs. Theddon’s patronage had gone. She had the crisp poise she used when bargaining with servants or tradesmen. It took several moments for Miss Howland to recover. A hundred dollars would have been a great persuader. But a _thousand_! Then her narrow, crafty nature roused from the mental stupor which the offer had produced. If the Theddon woman would pay a thousand dollars, she must want the child very much indeed. Miss Howland flattered herself she knew these pampered, petulant women. She gave facial indications of thrust-and-parry. “I couldn’t——” “Very well,” announced Mrs. Theddon. “I withdraw my offer and bid you good-day. But I shall use my influence in certain quarters to secure the child without the payment of a cent. I made you a fair offer to avoid legal procedure and undesirable publicity. But now I withdraw it!” Mrs. Theddon lowered her veil and prepared to depart—which she had not the least intention of doing. “Wait a moment!” cried Miss Howland weakly. At once she abandoned any attempt to dicker. It was too risky. “I was about to say I couldn’t desire anything better than to think of little Allegra being adopted by a nice lady like yourself——” Mrs. Theddon produced her check book. III A little, misery-eyed, wood thrush of a girl in a drab-blue pinafore crept out from her hiding place under a corner desk. She fled across the “office”, up the back stairs and into her “room”, a cot under an alcove, before the Howland person returned from the gate where she had enviously watched the grays drive away. The little girl had overheard. Parentless, nameless, she had been sold by one person and bought by another,—for a thousand dollars! The intuitive horror of her nonentity, of that sale and purchase, never left the little girl,—not even twenty years later in womanhood. She crouched—a tiny mite in blue gingham—on the cot and failed to answer Miss Howland when the latter went through the house, calling for her angrily. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER V