lines, or a widow’s bonnet.  Here also were black costumes (dripping beads), broken feathers, and hopeless hats.  Old furniture had several stands and was an important department.  Grandfather clocks, sideboards, chairs (Chippendale or otherwise), chairs in horsehair or upholstered in wool-work, and framed family portraits solicited notice.  Should anyone marvel as to what becomes of the rubbish and relics belonging to houses whose contents have been scattered, after several generations—­trifles that survived wrecked fortunes, odds and ends which, for sacred reasons, people had clung to till the last, let them repair to the “Market”—­the relics are there, lying on unresponsive cobble stones, a pitiful spectacle, handled, despised, and cast aside—­the precious hoarded treasures of a bygone age.

Delicately worked samplers, faded water-colours, portraits, old seals, snuff-boxes, and lockets, attract the curio-hunter.  Here is a Prayer Book with massive silver clasps, inscribed, “Dearest Mary, on our wedding day, June 4th, 1847, from Gilbert.”  There, in a red morocco case, is a miniature of a handsome naval officer.  At the back, under glass, are two locks of hair, joined by a true lover’s knot in seed pearls.  Some ruthless hand will pick out those pearls and throw the hair away.

For a considerable time Shafto strolled about with his hands in his pockets, so far seeing nothing to tempt him.  Meanwhile his companion eagerly examined books and bargained over a tattered old volume.  Shafto noted with surprise the number of well-dressed visitors poking among the stalls, in search of treasure trove.  There were a parson with a greedy-looking leather bag, an officer in uniform, and various smart ladies, hunting in couples.  Among a quantity of jugs and basins, soup tureens and coarse crockery, Shafto’s idle glance fell upon a frightful Chinese figure, the squat presentation of a man, about eight inches in height.

“I say, did you ever see such a horror?” he asked, pointing it out to his companion; “a curio for ugliness, and just the sort of monster Mrs. Malone would love.  I’ll try if I can get hold of it.  What’s the price of the China demon?” he inquired of a wizened old woman, who wore a bashed black bonnet and a pair of blue sand shoes.

“Five shillin’,” she replied promptly.

“Five shillings!” he exclaimed.  “You’re joking.”

“No time for jokes here,” she retorted, “it’s a good piece” (picking up the figure), “and come out of a grand house.  If it were in Bond Street, they’d ask you five pounds.  I showed it to a man, who said it was good, although there was no mark, and it might be worth a lot; but I’ve no time to be raking up things—­my trade is a quick sale—­and cash.”

“I’ll give you half a crown,” said the customer.

“Two half-crowns, and it’s yours, and a bargain; you won’t know the old fellow when he’s had a wash!”

“What do you say, Hutton?” inquired Douglas, turning to his friend.