Barbara could not afterward recall all that passed during the intolerable period before the bidding began. She was vaguely aware of women, tall and short, curious, eager, clutching hand-bags, presumably containing large sums of money. There were men, too. The representative of the Boston widower, the young mining engineer, more eager and determined than ever after his short interview with Barbara. “I’ll bid every cent I can on you,” he assured the girl, with boyish sincerity. “You’re just the one for us, and I know you’d enjoy the life out there. We wouldn’t treat you like an ordinary servant; you’d be more like a friend, I can see that, and I’m sure Ethel—Mrs. Selfridge [he blushed at his own delightful mendacity] will like you very much. She’ll want to see you at once, if I am the lucky winner.” It was all strange, dream-like, and for the most part intolerable. Barbara raised her heavy eyes once more at the sound of the hard-shut door. Stephen Jarvis stood looking at her in silence. She felt rather than saw that some great though subtle change had come over him. “Why,” he asked in a voice as changed as his looks, “have you done this thing?” She did not answer, and he drew a step nearer. “Tell me,” he said under his breath, “will you give it up? if I—agree to all that you asked for—time to meet the payments?” He hesitated as if choosing his words with care. “You were right about the orchards,” he went on. “There will be a good yield—more than enough.” He stretched out his hands imploringly, “Spare me, Barbara,” he entreated. “Don’t put yourself and me to shame before them all!” The door swung open a little way. “Did you say the young woman was in here?” inquired a feminine voice, sharp with curiosity. Barbara caught a momentary glimpse of a militant-looking turban glittering with jet beads. Jarvis shut the door, and stood against it, a tall sombre figure of authority. “Let me put a stop to it all, Barbara,” he urged. “Barbara!—in God’s name! I can’t let you do it!” “It is—too late,” she said, speaking slowly because of the dryness of her throat and mouth. “Don’t you see—I must go on with it, and I—shall pay you—every cent!” He drew a difficult breath that was almost a sob. “You—will—pay—me,” he repeated, a dreadful self-loathing struggling with the despair in his eyes. Then he went away, quietly, as he had come. XI PEG MORRISON smote the rough brown backs of his horses with a practised slap of the lines. “Y’ remind me o’ the sect in gen’ral,” he observed, in a loud, critical voice, as the off member of the team backed and fidgeted uneasily. “When y’ want a female, woman er hoss, to go, thet’s th’ pertickler time they elect t’ stan’ still, an’ when y’ want ’em to stan ’still—— Whoa, thar; can’t ye?”