he chid. "I don't allow no one
to laugh at my Seffy--except chust me--account I'm his daddy. It's a
fight-word the next time you do it."

Mr. Busby straightened his countenance.

"He don't seem to notice--nor keer--'bout gals--do he?"

No one spoke.

"No, durn him, he ain't no good. Say--what'll you give for him, hah?
Yere he goes to the highest bidder--for richer, for poorer, for better,
for worser, up and down, in and out, swing your partners--what's bid? He
ken plow as crooked as a mule's hind leg, sleep hard as a 'possum in
wintertime, eat like a snake, git left efery time--but he ken ketch
fish. They wait on him. What's bid?"

No one would hazard a bid.

"Yit a minute," shouted the old fellow, pulling out his bull's-eye
watch again, "what's bid? Going--going--all done--going--"

"A dollar!"

The bid came from behind him, and the voice was beautiful to hear. A
gleam came into the old man's eyes as he heard it. He deliberately put
the watch back in its pocket, put on his spectacles, and turned, as if
she were a stranger.

"Gone!" he announced then. "Who's the purchaser? Come forwards and take
away you' property. What's the name, please?" Then he pretended to
recognize her. "Oach! Sally! Well, that's lucky! He goes in good hands.
He's sound and kind, but needs the whip." He held out his hand for the
dollar.

It was the girl of whom he had spoken accurately as a prize. Her sleeves
were turned up as far as they would go, revealing some soft lace-trimmed
whiteness, and there _was_ flour on her arms. Some patches of it on her
face gave a petal-like effect to her otherwise aggressive color. The
pretty dress was pinned far enough back to reveal the prettier
petticoat--plus a pair of trimly-clad ankles.

Perhaps these were neither the garments nor the airs in which every
farmer-maiden did her baking. But then, Sally was no ordinary
farmer-maiden. She was all this, it is true, but she was, besides, grace
and color and charm itself. And if she chose to bake in such attire--or,
even, if she chose to pretend to do so, where was the churl to say her
nay, even though the flour was part of a deliberate "make up"? Certainly
he was not at the store that summer morning.

And Seffy was there. Her hair escaped redness by only a little. But that
little was just the difference between ugliness and beauty. For, whether
Sally were beautiful or not--about which we might contend a bit--her
hair was, and perhaps that is the rea