Stephen moved away.  He felt that to stay near the man was to be tempted to murder.  He moved away, and just then the auctioneer yelled, “Attention!”

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “I have heah two sisters, the prope’ty of the late Mistah Robe’t Benbow, of St. Louis, as fine a pair of wenches as was ever offe’d to the public from these heah steps—­”

“Speak for the handsome gal,” cried a wag.

“Sell off the cart hoss fust,” said another.

The auctioneer turned to the darker sister: 

“Sal ain’t much on looks, gentlemen,” he said, “but she’s the best nigger for work Mistah Benbow had.”  He seized her arm and squeezed it, while the girl flinched and drew back.  “She’s solid, gentlemen, and sound as a dollar, and she kin sew and cook.  Twenty-two years old.  What am I bid?”

Much to the auctioneer’s disgust, Sal was bought in for four hundred dollars, the interest in the beautiful sister having made the crowd impatient.  Stephen, sick at heart, turned to leave.  Halfway to the corner he met a little elderly man who was the color of a dried gourd.  And just as Stephen passed him, this man was overtaken by an old negress, with tears streaming down her face, who seized the threadbare hem of his coat.  Stephen paused involuntarily.

“Well, Nancy,” said the little man, “we had marvellous luck.  I was able to buy your daughter for you with less than the amount of your savings.”

“T’ank you, Mistah Cantah,” wailed the poor woman, “t’ank you, suh.  Praised be de name ob de Lawd.  He gib me Sal again.  Oh, Mistah Cantah” (the agony in that cry), “is you gwineter stan’ heah an’ see her sister Hester sol’ to—­to—­oh, ma little Chile!  De little Chile dat I nussed, dat I raised up in God’s ’ligion.  Mistah Cantah, save her, suh, f’om dat wicked life o’ sin.  De Lawd Jesus’ll rewa’d you, suh.  Dis ole woman’ll wuk fo’ you twell de flesh drops off’n her fingers, suh.”

And had he not held her, she would have gone down on her knees on the stone flagging before him.  Her suffering was stamped on the little man’s face—­and it seemed to Stephen that this was but one trial more which adversity had brought to Mr. Canter.

“Nancy,” he answered (how often, and to how many, must he have had to say the same thing), “I haven’t the money, Nancy.  Would to God that I had, Nancy!”

She had sunk down on the bricks.  But she had not fainted.  It was not so merciful as that.  It was Stephen who lifted her, and helped her to the coping, where she sat with her bandanna awry.

Stephen was not of a descent to do things upon impulse.  But the tale was told in after days that one of his first actions in St. Louis was of this nature.  The waters stored for ages in the four great lakes, given the opportunity, rush over Niagara Falls into Ontario.

“Take the woman away,” said Stephen, in a low voice, “and I will buy the girl,—­if I can.”

The little man looked up, dazed.