“Four thousand dollars I’m bid; who’ll raise it to five?” The young fellow who had tacitly acknowledged himself to be David Whitcomb groaned aloud. “I can’t do it!” he said. There was a general stir and turning of heads as Peg Morrison forced his way through the excited crowd. “Hold on thar!” he cried, in a loud, tremulous voice. “I’ve been up an’ got my money an’ counted it. I’ll bid on Miss Barb’ry myself. She ain’t a-goin’ t’ leave this ’ere farm t’ go with nobody, ’f I c’n help it! I bid fifty-eight dollars an’ sixty-five cents on Miss Barb’ry, an’ it’s all I’ve got in the world!” “Four thousand dollars I’m bid!” cried Mr. Bellows, his professional tones easily dominating the babel of voices. “Four thousand dollars, going! Four thousand dollars, going! Four thousand dollars, gone! And sold to this ’ere gentleman. Your name, please!” The small man, in the checked clothes, cleared his throat weakly and blinked, as he strapped the leathern memorandum book. “My name’s Smith,” he said, in an apologetic whisper. “Well, Mr. Smith, you c’n settle right here and now, an’ I’ll give you a signed receipt.” “Hold on!” blustered Whitcomb, his face flushed to a wrathful crimson. “Who is this fellow, and what does he mean to do with—Barbara?” The last word was a groan of rage and disappointment. “Excuse me, sir; I’ve got a bad cold an’ can’t talk. I’ll explain to Mr. Bellows here in private. Yes, sir; I’ve got the money all right.” The woman in the jetted turban and the tall lady in green advanced in a determined way, backed up by three women of the village, burning with neighborly zeal; the countenances of all five expressed blended curiosity and disapproval. The small man in the checked suit endeavored to shrink behind Mr. Bellows’ portly person, but the lady in the jetted turban fixed him with her glittering eye. “I command you to tell me at once why you bid four thousand dollars for the services of the young person in the other room,” said this person in a militant voice. “I suspect your motives, sir! I doubt your respectability.” She turned to the other women. “Tell me,” she demanded, “does this man look honest?” Mr. Smith blinked weakly at his inquisitors. “I’m all right, ma’am,” he said hoarsely, “an’ puffec’ly honest. An’ I ain’t biddin’ for myself, but for another party.” “Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the five women in unbelieving chorus. “Who is your principal?” snapped the indignant lady in green. “Of course we all know the girl can’t be worth eight hundred dollars a year, in any respectable employment.” The little man coughed apologetically. “She’s wanted,” he said, “by a responsible party to look after a little boy—a very nice, respectable little boy.” “Is he a widower?” shrieked the ladies in unison. “No, ma’am,” replied the little man, ducking his head fearfully and edging away. “He ain’t old enough to be married yet.” “Not old enough to be married? Oh! you mean the boy?”