t it belonged to her grandmother once. That man
don't know what he's saying, but that's the way these auctioneers do;
you can't believe half they say at a sale half the time."

Phoebe looked up at Phares; both smiled, but the loquacious auctioneer,
not knowing the comments he was causing, went on serenely:

"Yes, sir, this is a real old piece of furniture, a real antique. Look
at this, everybody--a chest of drawers, a highboy, some people call it,
but it's pretty by any name. All of it is genuine mahogany trimmed with
inlaid pieces of white wood. Start it up, somebody. What will you give
for the finest thing we have here at this sale to-day? What's bid? Good!
I'm bid five dollars to begin; shows you know a good thing when you see
it. Five dollars--make it ten?"

"Ten," answered Phares Eby.

Phoebe gave a start of surprise as the preacher's voice came in answer
to the entreaty of the auctioneer.

"Phares," she whispered, "I didn't mean that I want to buy it."

"I am buying it," he said calmly, an inscrutable smile in his eyes. "You
like it, don't you?"

She felt a vague uneasiness at his words, at the new sound of tenderness
in his voice.

"Yes, I like it, but----"

"Then we'll talk about that some other day soon," he returned, and
looked again at the busy auctioneer.

"Ten dollars, ten, ten," came the eager call of the man on the
box. "Who makes it fifteen? That's it--fifteen I have--sixteen,
eighteen--twenty--twenty-five, thirty--thirty, thirty, come on, who
makes it more? Not done yet? Not going for that little bit? Who makes
it thirty-five?"

"Thirty-five," said Phares.

"Thirty-five," the auctioneer caught at the words. "That's the way to
bid."

"Thirty-eight," came a voice from the crowd.

"Thirty-eight," the auctioneer smiled broadly at the bid. "Some person
is going to get a fine antique--keep it up, the highest bidder gets
it--thirty-eight----"

"Forty," offered Phares.

"Forty, forty dollars--I have forty dollars offered for the highboy--all
done at forty----"

There was a tense silence.

"Forty dollars--all done at forty--last call--going--going--gone. Gone
at forty dollars to Phares Eby."

Phoebe turned to the preacher. "Did you bid just for the fun of
bidding?" she asked.

"Well," he replied slowly, "the cases are not exactly alike. You like
the highboy, don't you?"

"Yes--but what has that to do with it?" She looked up, but turned her
head away quickly. What did he mean? Surely