"But perhaps someone else will outbid him," suggested Mr. Westmore. "I would not lose heart yet."

"There is no one in Glendow able to bid successfully against Mr.

Farrington," Nora replied. "We have learned, however, that Mr. Turpin, a real estate man, arrived from the city last night. He wishes to buy the place merely as a speculation, hoping to turn it over to some rich people who wish to come to Canada to settle. But there is the bell!" and she half-started from her invalid's chair, but sank back with a little cry at the pain caused by the sudden movement.

As the day was mild the auction took place in the open where the auctioneer, surrounded by some two dozen men, was mounted on a large box.

At first the bidding was general and brisk. Gradually, however, it dwindled down to three or four, and finally to Farrington and Turpin, the real estate man. The former was standing a little apart from the rest, with his eyes intent upon the auctioneer, and unable to repress the eagerness which shone in his face. As the bidding advanced and drew near the three thousand dollar mark, Turpin showed signs of weakening, while his bids came slower and slower. Farrington, noticing this, could not control his pleasure, and when he at length offered the round sum of three thousand dollars Turpin gave up the struggle and, moving back a little, perched himself upon a barrel, and seemed to take no interest in the affair.

A triumphant light gleamed in Farrington's eyes as he observed his vanquished opponent. He glanced towards the house, and, seeing Mrs.

Frenelle standing in the doorway, his lips parted in a cruel smile. It was that smile more than anything else which revealed the real nature of the man.

The breathless silence which for a time ensued at this crisis was broken by the harsh cry of the auctioneer:

"Three thousand dollars!" he called. "Going at three thousand dollars! Any advance on three thousand dollars. Going at three thousand dollars.

Once--twice--third--and--"

"Three thousand one hundred," came suddenly from Parson John.

An earthquake shock could hardly have startled the men more than this bid from such an unexpected quarter.

Farrington's face reddened, and he moved a step nearer to be sure that he had not been mistaken.

"Did I hear aright?" he gasped. "Did the parson add one hundred to my bid?"

"Three thousand one hundred dollars from Parson Westmore," shouted the auctioneer. "Any advance on three thousand one hundred dollars?"

"Another hundred, then, d.a.m.n it," and Farrington thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, while his eyes gleamed with an angry light.

"Three thousand five hundred," came the quiet response.

Silence followed this last bid, which plainly proved that Farrington, too, was weakening. He looked around as if uncertain what to do, and his eyes rested upon Mrs. Frenelle. In her eagerness she had moved from the door, and was standing near the group of men with her eyes fixed full upon the clergyman. The expression upon her face was that of a drowning person, who, when all hope has been abandoned, sees a rescuer suddenly at hand. It was this look more than the half-suppressed laugh that pa.s.sed among the men, which caused him to fling another one hundred dollars at the auctioneer.

"Four thousand," again came strong and clear from Parson John without the slightest hesitation.

The auctioneer waited for Farrington to increase his bid. The men almost held their breath in the excitement of the moment, and Mrs. Frenelle moved a step nearer with her hands firmly clasped before her.

"Four thousand dollars," the auctioneer spoke slowly and impressively now.

"Any--advance--on four thousand dollars? Going at four thousand dollars-- Once--twice--third--and----last call----, and sold to Parson Westmore for four thousand dollars."

As these words fell from the speaker's lips a deep sigh broke the tense feeling of the little company. They had been stirred more than was their wont by the scene that they had just witnessed. These men knew but little of the rise and fall of ancient kingdoms, the strife of modern nations, the deeds of statesmen, and the affairs of the financial world. And yet in the sale of this farm in an obscure country place the secret springs of life, even though on a small scale, were laid bare. The pathos of a happy home on the verge of destruction, with a loving mother and an invalid child in danger of being cast out upon the cold world, and to see this tragedy so narrowly averted through one staunch champion successfully beating back pride and greed as represented in the person of Silas Farrington--truly it was a miniature of the world's history, which may be found in every town, village or home.

"I trust you understand the conditions of the sale, sir," and the auctioneer looked curiously at the clergyman, who was standing somewhat by himself. "One-third of the amount down, and the balance in half-yearly payments. I only mention this in case you may not know it."

"I understand perfectly well," was the reply. "The _whole_ amount shall be paid at once, and the matter settled without delay."

"Guess the ministry must be a payin' job," sneered Farrington, "when a poor country parson kin fork out four thousand dollars at one slap. I see now why ye're allus dunnin' us fer money. Mebbe ye've got a hot sermon all ready on the subject fer us next Sunday."

Mr. Westmore looked intently at the man for an instant, and his lips parted as if to reply. Instead, however, he turned without a word and moved slowly towards the house.

He reached Nora's side, and took her outstretched hand in his. Tears of joy were in her eyes as she lifted them to her Rector's face, and endeavoured to find adequate words in which to express her grat.i.tude.

"I know we are safe now!" she said. "But we never thought of you buying the place! I cannot understand it at all. Four thousand dollars! What a lot of money!"

"No, my child, you cannot understand it now, but you will some day," and as Mr. Westmore turned his face towards the window a tear might have been detected stealing slowly down his furrowed cheek.

Chapter VII

The Farringtons

Silas Farrington flung himself out of his sleigh and handed the reins to a young man who had come forth from the store.

"What are ye so slow about?" he snarled. "Here I've been callin' fer the last five minutes. Why don't ye hustle when I call?"

"I was running mola.s.ses," came the surly reply, "and how could I leave--"

"There now, no back talk; I never allow it. Put up the horse, an' don't spend all day about it, either."

With these words Farrington made his way to the house, leaving the young man inwardly cursing his unjust master.

"Ye're late, Si," a voice exclaimed, as he opened the door and entered.

"We've been waitin' fer ye a full hour or more."

"I couldn't help it," Farrington replied. "I was delayed."

"An' how much did ye pay fer the farm, Si?"

"Farm be--be--hanged! I'm sick of it."

"But didn't ye git it, Si?" his wife persisted.

"Git it? No!"

"What!"

"I said no!"

"But who did, then?"

"The parson."

"What! Parson John?"

"Certainly. Who else would be fool enough to interfere with me?"

"Well, well!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Farrington. "Do tell us about it, Si?"