CHAPTER V. THE FIRST SPARK PASSES 

"Now, gentlemen," shouted the auctioneer when he had finished his oration upon the girl's attractions, "what 'tin I bid? Eight hundred?" 

Stephen caught his breath. There was a long pause no one cared to start the bidding. 

"Come, gentlemen, come! There's my friend Alf Jenkins. He knows what she's worth to a cent. What'll you give, Alf? Is it eight hundred?" 

Mr. Jenkins winked at the auction joined in the laugh. 

"Three hundred!" he said. 

The auctioneer was mortally offended. Then some one cried:--"Three hundred and fifty!" 

It was young Colfax. He was recognized at once, by name, evidently as a person of importance. 

"Thank you, Mistah Colfax, suh," said the auctioneer, with a servile wave of the hand in his direction, while the crowd twisted their necks to see him. He stood very straight, very haughty, as if entirely oblivious to his conspicuous position. 

"Three seventy-five!" 

"That's better, Mistah Jenkins," said the auctioneer, sarcastically. He turned to the girl, who might have stood to a sculptor for a figure of despair. Her hands were folded in front of her, her head bowed down. The auctioneer put his hand under her chin and raised it roughly. "Cheer up, my gal," he said, "you ain't got nothing to blubber about now." 

Hester's breast heaved and from her black eyes there shot a magnificent look of defiance. He laughed. That was the white blood. 

The white blood! 

Clarence Colfax had his bid taken from his lips. Above the heads of the people he had a quick vision of a young man with a determined face, whose voice rang clear and strong,-- "Four hundred!" 
What is her name?
Hester's breast heaved