"It's Sam Learoyd," the man replied, "and he wants to know if onybody's
wantin' to buy his dowter."

"Black Sam o' Fieldhead Farm! By Gow! I reckon he's bin crazed sin his
missus left him for t' barman. But he hasn't gotten no dowters, nor sons
nowther. It'll be his stepdowter, Mary Whittaker, that he's browt to
market."

The speakers were now approaching the spot where the father and the
haltered stepdaughter were standing. The former, a hard-featured, sullen
man of about forty-five, was addressing the crowd. The latter, hiding as
much of her face as she could beneath her grey shawl, stood with her
hands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on the ground. Mute
resignation was written on every line of her face. Whatever indignation
or shame she might feel at the degrading situation in which she was
placed seemed repressed, either by the humility that comes from long
suffering or by a supreme effort of the will, of which the tightly
closed lips gave some indication.

The spot chosen by Sam Learoyd for his traffic in human flesh was not
without significance. Behind him, and approached by steps, on which the
farmers' wives exposed for sale their baskets of poultry and eggs, stood
what was left of the market cross. It was one of those old Saxon crosses
of Irish design which may still be seen in some of the towns and
villages of England, and are said to mark the spot where the early
Christian missionaries, long before the churches were built, preached
their gospel of peace and good will to a pagan audience. Close at hand
were the stocks, where, until quite recently, the bullies and scolds of
the town had been set by their fellow-citizens and suhjected to the
missiles and taunts of every passer-by. Here, then, between these two