ing wrong?"

He sent her back a line directly: "Auctioneer running you up himself.
Follow his eye when he bids; you will see there is no bona fide bidder
at your prices."

Rosa did so, and found that it was true.

She nodded to Uncle Philip; and, with her expressive face, asked him
what she should do.

The old boy must have his joke. So he wrote back: "Tell him, as you see
he has a fancy for certain articles, you would not be so discourteous as
to bid against him."

The next article but one was a drawing-room suite Rosa wanted; but the
auctioneer bid against her; so at eighteen pounds she stopped.

"It is against you, madam," said the auctioneer.

"Yes, sir," said Rosa; "but as you are the only bidder, and you have
been so kind to me, I would not think of opposing you."

The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when they were greeted with
a roar of Homeric laughter that literally shook the room, and this time
not at the expense of the innocent speaker.

"That's into your mutton, governor."

"Sharp's the word this time."

"I say, governor, don't you want a broker to bid for ye?"

"Wink at me next time, sir; I'll do the office for you."

"No greenhorns left now."

"That lady won't give a ten-pund note for her grandfather's armchair."

"Oh, yes, she will, if it's stuffed with banknotes."

"Put the next lot up with the owner's name and the reserve price. Open
business."

"And sing a psalm at starting."

"A little less noise in Judaea, if you please," said the auctioneer, who
had now recovered from the blow. "Lot 97."

This was a very pretty marqueterie cabinet; it stood against the wall,
and Rosa had set her heart upon it. Nobody would bid. She had muzzled
the auctioneer effectually.

"Your own price."

"Two pounds," said Rosa.

A dealer offered guineas; and it advanced slowly to four pounds and half
a crown, at which it was about to be knocked down to Rosa, when suddenly
a new bidder arose in the broker Rosa had rejected. They bid slowly and
sturdily against each other, until a line was given to Rosa from Uncle
Philip.

"This time it is your own friend, the snipe-nosed woman. She telegraphed
a broker."

Rosa read, and crushed the note. "Six guineas," said she.

"Six-ten."

"Seven."

"Seven-ten."

"Eight."

"Eight-ten."

"Ten guineas," said Rosa; and then, with feminine cunning, stealing a
sudden glance, caught her friend leaning back and signalling the broker
not to give in.

"