“I congratulate ye, ma’am, on the success o’ your idee,” Thomas Bellows said, when an hour later he handed to Barbara the roll of bills from which he had complacently peeled off his own tidy commission. “This ’ere ’ll pay off the lien on your prop’ty, I take it, an’ leave you a pretty good nest-egg besides.”

“Who,” said Barbara, her face pale and troubled, “bought—me?”

“W’y, as t’ that,” confessed the auctioneer, “I can’t tell you exactly. I was asked to hand you this ’ere letter. It contains further perticklers, I persoom.”

He produced a thick square envelope bearing her name and address in type-written characters.

“You was to stay right here on call, I was asked t’ inform you. No, ma’am; it wa’n’t any o’ them folks that wrote t’ you beforehand. A man, name of Smith; said he was the agent of the party as bid you in. You’re to stay right here till called for.”

Barbara had opened the envelope and was scanning the few lines of type-writing in the middle of the large square sheet.

“Miss Barbara Preston [she read] will hold herself in readiness to enter upon the term of her service, previously understood to be five years. It is impossible, at the present instant, for the writer to state when the call will come; but the term of service will be reckoned from this eighteenth day of May, 19——. Miss Preston’s duties will comprise the conduct of a home, and the care and guardianship of a little child.”

There was also enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope, containing a paper drawn up in legal form, binding one Barbara Preston, spinster, for and in consideration of the sum of four thousand dollars (herein acknowledged), to a term of continuous service, beginning on the eighteenth day of May, 19— and terminating on the same day of the month in the year 19—. The document was duly witnessed and bore, in lieu of signature, the imprint of a seal, with a device of crossed battle-axes and the single word Invictus.

“You’re t’ sign right here,” said Mr. Bellows, indicating with his blunt forefinger the space below the seal. “Me an’ Peg Morrison ’ll witness the signature. I told him to wait outside, in case the’ was papers to sign. I’ll see to forwardin’ it for you. Le’ me see that there envelope; likely it’ll shed a little light on th’ identity o’ the party.”

But the envelope bore merely the number of a post-office box, in a distant city.

Mr. Bellows scratched his head and squinted his eyes into puzzled slits as he surveyed this unsatisfactory bit of evidence from every possible angle.

“Wall, I don’t know,” he burst out at length, “es I’d trust that proposition teetotally, if it wasn’t fer the references. The man as bid ye in satisfied me the party he was representin’ was O.K. es t’ character an’ intentions.”

He glanced shrewdly at the girl; but Barbara asked no questions. She was beginning to realize that while the shackles which had bound her to Jarvis were about to be loosed, this unknown master of her future had forged a new and perhaps heavier fetter. But her composed features betrayed nothing while she wrote her name clearly—Barbara Allen Preston—below the red seal, with its short but significant motto.

Thomas Bellows went away after a little, taking with him the contract, duly signed, sealed, and ready to deliver, and Barbara, left quite alone in the disordered house, quietly locked the money away in a drawer of her desk.

She turned to find Peg Morrison staring at her with eyes full of grief and consternation.

“Miss Barb’ry,” he began, “why in creation didn’t ye tell me what you was goin’ t’ do? Sellin’ yourself—sellin’ your own flesh an’ blood, like you was an Aferc’n slave! What d’you s’pose your folks ’d a said t’ what took place in this ’ere house t’-day—huh? I’ll bet your grandmother Preston ’d think you’d gone crazy. Where be you goin’? What you goin’ t’ do with th’ Cap’n? Whar do I come in in this ’ere deal? Them’s questions ’at I want answered right now. I’ve a notion,” he added darkly, “that you be kind o’ cracked. ’N’ I don’t wonder at it much.”

Barbara was putting the furniture in place, straightening the rugs, and otherwise restoring to its wonted order the scene of the recent auction. Her cheeks and lips were bright with color; her eyes sparkled as she faced the old man.

“You are entirely mistaken, Peg,” she said impatiently. “Just listen, will you? If I had waited a few days longer we should have been sold out under the hammer—farm, house, furniture, stock. Now we shan’t be. Do you understand? This very day I’m going to settle with the Honorable Stephen Jarvis [her red lips curled a little over the words], and I’ll pay Abe Hewett, too, and all the others. Oh! I’m glad I did it—glad! Jimmy will have the farm, and there’ll be plenty left to fix the fences, and buy the fertilizers we need and mend the broken roof and maybe paint the house. Don’t you see, Peg, what a splendid thing it will be?”

“But where are you goin’, Miss Barb-ry?” The old man’s voice held the sound of tears. “An’ who’s goin’ to take care o’ the Cap’n?”

Barbara compressed her lips sternly.

“I don’t know where I shall go,” she said, “but wherever I am I can write to—to Jimmy; and Peg, I want you to stay, just as you have; only I shall pay you good wages. I shall pay up all that I owe you, too, and——”

“Will I hev charge o’ the Cap’n?” inquired the old man anxiously. “Five years is a long time, Miss Barb’ry, he’ll be—l’ me see. W’y, the Cap’n ’ll be ’leven years old time you’re at liberty.”

Barbara drew her fine dark brows together.

“I’ve engaged Martha Cottle to come here and keep house and take care of Jimmy,” she said. “She’s coming this afternoon.”

Mr. Morrison’s jaw dropped.

“Marthy Cottle!” he ejaculated. “W’y, that female—she don’t know no more ’bout little boys ’an—’an a Holstein steer. She’s an old maid schoolmarm, cut an’ dried.”

“She can help Jimmy with his lessons,” Barbara said doggedly. “She’s good and honest, and she’ll do her best to——”

“Gosh!” murmured the old man, shaking his head. “She’ll do her best, mebbe, but—wall, I’ll do what I kin fer the Cap’n t’—keep him f’om gittin’ too awful lonesome an’ discouraged. Marthy Cottle! Huh! We’ll hev t’ make out the best we kin after you’re gone. Does—the Cap’n know—hev you tol’ him you’re a-goin leave him?”

“No,” said Barbara, in a harsh voice. “I haven’t, and I don’t intend to, either. I—I’ll leave word. I—couldn’t, Peg.”

Her young voice broke in an irrepressible sob.

“Don’t you feel bad, Miss Barb’ry,” the old man essayed to comfort her. “You meant it fer the best, I know you did, Miss Barb’ry. An’ mebbe it’ll turn out all right. I wouldn’t cross no bridges till I got to ’em, ef I was you. I s’pose,” he went on, his shrewd eyes on her face, “‘at you seen young Dave Whitcomb this mornin’—him ’at used to teach school in th’ village?”

Barbara’s face whitened.

“You don’t mean——” she faltered.

“Dave was here t’ the auction,” pursued Mr. Morrison. “I heerd him put in two or three big bids on ye. He was ready to pass out his entire pile t’—save ye f’om bein’ took away; I’ll say that much fer Dave.”

He turned, with his hand on the door.

“I didn’t hev nothin’ when it come t’ biddin’,” he groaned. “I might ’a’ saved m’ breath t’ cool m’ porridge. But I’d ’a’ give the best fi’ years off’n m’ life t’ ’a’ kep’ ye right here at home, where ye b’long. I swan I would, Miss Barb’ry.”

“I know you would, Peg,” Barbara said gently. Her eyes, the beautiful clear eyes of her father in his first unspoiled youth, were misty with tears, but she smiled bravely. “Five years isn’t long,” she reminded him. “It’ll soon be over. And you can raise five crops of those wonderful onions while I’m gone.”

Stephen Jarvis was at home and alone in his library that afternoon when Barbara asked to see him. It might even have been inferred that he expected her; but if he did, he made no sign. His manner was cool and calm, quite in keeping with the business of the hour, as he took pains to explain to her a number of details connected with the accumulated interest upon interest, delinquent tax accounts, and other matters pertaining to the estate which Barbara, in her poverty, had been forced to ignore.

“I can pay it all,” she said to him, the fruit of her triumph sweet upon her lips. “That is why I am here—to pay—everything I owe.”

He looked at her quietly.

“You are doubtless to be congratulated upon the success of your scheme,” he said. “I hear you realized quite a handsome sum on the sale of——” he hesitated for the fraction of a minute—“your future.”

“It will be only five years,” Barbara said defiantly. “I shall be glad to work—hard, for Jimmy.”

“When,” he asked, “do you expect to leave town?”

“To-day, to-morrow—I cannot tell. I am ready to go now.”

“To be gone five years,” he said thoughtfully. “Very well; we will finish this business at once. Let me advise you to attend to your taxes promptly hereafter; and if——”

“Thank you,” interrupted Barbara haughtily. “I shall be able, I am sure, to meet all obligations in the future. The farm may be worthless, worn out, but it will pay for itself.”

He did not appear to have heard her last words. He was busily arranging various papers. And presently he handed her the cancelled bond and mortgage, and the receipted tax bills, all neatly arranged. In return she counted out to him, with fingers which trembled in spite of herself, the crisp bills for which she had sold her youth.

“There!” she said rather breathlessly. “Is that all?”

“All,” he repeated quietly. “And it is all quite right. Thank you.”

She looked at him uncertainly. His head was bent, his eyes fixed upon the pile of rustling bank-notes which she had just pushed toward him.

A sudden unreasoning sense of dismay fell upon the girl, shadowing the triumph in her face. She made swift retreat toward the door, casting a half-frightened backward look at the sombre figure behind the desk.

He did not lift his eyes from their unseeing contemplation of the money, even when the jarring sound of the hard-shut door told him she was gone.

Left quite alone Stephen Jarvis slowly folded the notes, sealed them securely in a stout envelope and locked them in his safe.