“I don’t know as I ketch your idee,” said Mr. Bellows. “You want money, an’ you want it right away, an’ you want me to sell——” “I want you to sell my work—honest work, housework, any kind of work that I can do, for—for a term of years.” Mr. Bellows abandoned further efforts at bettering the condition of the late Widow Small’s sewing machine. He stood up and scowled meditatively at Barbara. “Seems t’ me I’ve seen you b’fore, somewheres; haven’t I?” “My name is Barbara Preston,” the girl said haughtily. “An’ you want I should——” “When people buy a horse they really buy and pay for the labor of that horse in advance,” Barbara said composedly. “I am more valuable than a horse. I have skill, intelligence; I wish to sell—my skill, my intelligence to the highest bidder.” “Well, I swan!” exclaimed Mr. Bellows. Then he fell to laughing noisily, his wizened countenance drawn into curious folds and puckers of mirth. Barbara waited unsmilingly. “Say! d’you know I’ve been asked to sell mos’ everythin’ you ever heard of,” said Mr. Bellows, getting the better of his hilarity, “but I never was asked to sell—a girl. A good-lookin’, smart, likely girl. I guess you’re jokin’, miss. It wouldn’t do, you know.” “Why wouldn’t it?” urged Barbara. “Well, it wouldn’t; that’s all. I’ve got m’ reputation as an auctioneer to think about; an’—lemme see, your folks is all dead, ain’t they?” “No,” said Barbara. “I have a brother six years old.” Her dry tongue refused to add to this statement. She was conscious of an inward tremor of fear lest he should refuse. “Whatever put such a curious notion into your head?” Mr. Bellows wanted to know. “I may as well tell you,” the girl said bitterly. “You’ll be asked to sell me out soon. We’re going to lose everything we’ve got—Jimmy and I; the farm, the—furniture—everything.” “You don’t say!” Mr. Bellows commented doubtfully. “Well, that had ought to net you something—eh?” “We shan’t have anything; everything will be gone,” the girl said coldly. “Sho! that’s too bad,” Mr. Bellows said good-naturedly. He stuck his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest, and scowled absent-mindedly into space. Then he looked at Barbara again. “Mortgage—eh?” he suggested. “Coverin’ pretty much everythin’—eh?” “Everything,” repeated Barbara, in a dull tone. “Everythin’—save an’ exceptin’ one smart, willin’ young woman—eh? You’d ought to bring a purty good figger—in the right market.” Mr. Bellows paused to give way to mirth once more. “The matrimonial market’s the one partic’lar field I ain’t had much ’xperience in,” he concluded. “An’ auctionin’ off goods of the sort you mention ain’t ’xactly in my line, an’ that’s a fac’, miss. So I guess——” “You don’t understand,” Barbara interrupted quickly. “Let me explain. When I found that everything was lost”—her voice trembled in spite of herself—“I thought at first I would teach school—let the farm go and teach——”