Rosa bid timidly for one or two lots, and bought them cheap.

The auctioneer kept looking her way, and she had only to nod.

The obnoxious broker got opposite her, and ran her up a little out of spite; but as he had only got half a crown about him, and no means of doubling it, he dared not go far.

On the other side of the table was a figure to which Rosa’s eyes often turned with interest—­a fair young boy about twelve years old; he had golden hair, and was in deep mourning.  His appearance interested Rosa, and she wondered how he came there, and why; he looked like a lamb wedged in among wolves, a flower among weeds.  As the lots proceeded, the boy seemed to get uneasy; and at last, when lot ’73 was put up, anybody could see in his poor little face that he was there to bid for it.

“Lot ’73, an armchair covered in morocco.  An excellent and useful article.  Should not be at all surprised if it was made by Gillow.”

“Gillow would though,” said Jacobs, who owed him a turn.

Chorus of dealers.—­“Haw! haw!”

The auctioneer.—­“I like to hear some people run a lot down; shows they are going to bid for it in earnest.  Well, name your own price.  Five pounds to begin?”

Now if nobody had spoken the auctioneer would have gone on, “Well, four pounds then—­three, two, whatever you like,” and at last obtained a bona fide offer of thirty shillings; but the moment he said “Five pounds to begin,” the boy in black lifted up his childish treble and bid thus, “Five pound ten”—­“six pounds”—­“six pound ten”—­“seven pounds”—­“seven pound ten”—­“eight pounds”—­“eight pound ten”—­“nine pounds”—­“nine pound ten”—­“ten pounds!” without interruption, and indeed almost in a breath.

There was a momentary pause of amazement, and then an outburst of chaff.

“Nice little boy!”

“Didn’t he say his lesson well?”

“Favor us with your card, sir.  You are a gent as knows how to buy.”

“What did he stop for?  If it’s worth ten, it is worth a hundred.”

“Bless the child!” said a female dealer, kindly, “what made you go on like that?  Why, there was no one bid against you! you’d have got it for two pounds—­a rickety old thing.”

Young master began to whimper.  “Why, the gentleman said, ’Five pounds to begin.’  It was the chair poor grandpapa always sat in, and all the things are sold, and mamma said it would break her heart to lose it.  She was too ill to come, so she sent me.  She told me I was not to let it be sold away from us for less than ten pounds, or she sh—­should be m—­m—­miserable,” and the poor little fellow began to cry.  Rosa followed suit promptly but unobtrusively.

“Sentiment always costs money,” said Mr. Jacobs, gravely.

“How do you know?” asked Mr. Cohen.  “Have you got any on hand?  I never seen none at your shop.”

Some tempting things now came up, and Mrs. Staines bid freely; but all of a sudden she looked down the table, and there was Uncle Philip, twinkling as before.  “Oh, dear! what am I doing now!” thought she.  “I have got no broker.”