dollars.

Three men of vast wealth competed for the prize, and the lucky purchaser was the eminent banker, John T. Sterling. Two financiers, known the world over, grew purple with jealousy when they first discovered that it was to go into the Sterling collection. Their faces resembled the color of the wonderful blossoms on the hawthorn vase.

Robert Hooker wanted to add to his museum this precious gift of the old Chinese gods. At the various places where the vase had been exhibited, he had often been seen gazing covetously at it. When it was offered for sale, he knew it was useless to ask the price—which was utterly beyond him.

One day, Hooker read in the society columns of the Herald that Jasper Foster was going to take up his residence in Italy on account of the illness of his only daughter. He intended to sell his fine old house on 17th Street, and all the furniture that it contained.

Now Jasper Foster was celebrated for one thing only. His name was known to fame but for a single object. He was the owner of the mate of the celebrated purple hawthorn vase in the Appleton collection.

Foster was an extremely modest, unworldly, retiring gentleman. In the last fifteen years there had been many inquiries about the vase, and numerous offers to purchase it, but he had always declined to part with it. It had been the property of his father and his grandfather, who had bought it from a sea-captain about the year 1820.

But now Foster was in dire straits. His house was mortgaged, and his daughter was ill with a malady that required a milder climate than New York. It was on this account that he was going to take up his residence in sunny Italy.

As soon as Hooker read the brief paragraph in the newspaper, he hurried to the rather imposing house on lower 17th Street. With fear and trembling, he rang the old-fashioned bell-pull.

Yes, Mr. Foster was at home.

The maid showed Mr. Hooker into the first parlor. He heard voices in an adjoining room. Mr. Foster then had other visitors.

To pass away the time, he picked up a magazine but put it down instantly. He had heard the magic words "purple hawthorn." Some one else was before him. He would find out.

Going behind an old Spanish leather screen, he listened. He looked through the aperture, and beheld two men, well-known in the world of finance. One was John T. Sterling; the other was James Thatcher, the celebrated collector.

Mr. Foster was not there. It was early in the morning, and perhaps he had not completed his toilet.

"Hello!—You here?" said one voice.

"Check-mated!" exclaimed the other.

"Damn it! I never expected to see you."

"Of course not. I know your mission. We had better see Foster together."

"No, I came first. I claim the privilege of the first interview!"

"No! I shall speak out. There is no use for us to bid against each other. It would spoil the market! I'm sure we can come to some agreement."

"No! I own the Appleton vase, and by right I should possess the other. It would make the finest pair of vases in the world! It will look magnificent in my house on Fifth Avenue."

"Don't be a hog—Foster does not know its value. He was offered five thousand dollars for it after the Mary J. Morgan sale in 1886. If we offer him fifteen thousand he will think it a gold mine. You know he needs the money. If you offer more he will become suspicious."

"I suppose we both can't have it. We'll toss for it! that is when the business details are over. You make an offer of ten—and then fifteen, or more, if necessary. Your hand upon it! Play fair—this is not the stock-market!"

The two eminent financiers grasped hands. An instant later Mr. Foster entered.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen."

"Not at all, Mr. Foster," replied Sterling. "We read in the papers you were going to Italy, and thought you would like to dispose of some of your curiosities. May we look around?"

"Certainly. I would like to sell some of the things. I hate to do it. But to be frank with you the illness of my daughter has proved a great expense. I'm forced to sell out."

The two gentlemen looked around. One purchased a satsuma vase for a hundred dollars—seventy-five more than it was worth! The other, after much consideration, bought an East Indian brass bowl for fifty dollars—an extravagant price. They seemed to ignore the beautiful vase in a glass cabinet in the corner. They were unconscious of its existence!

"I have something really fine, gentlemen—the hawthorn vase purchased by my grandfather. You know about it?"

"I heard something of it once—but I've forgotten all about it. I would be glad to look at the vase."

They bent their heads. A thrill ran through them as they beheld the wonderful purple and the perfect glaze.

"That's not bad. Of course, its shape might be better. People, nowadays, want the green or black. I have a beautiful famille rose. What do you want for it?"

"I've never looked at it in that way. What's it worth to you? Some years ago I had a good offer on it. But I didn't need the money then."

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I don't want to be small about it. I'll give you ten thousand cash."

Mr. Foster was visibly affected.

"That is a good price. But I need more than that to see me settled in my little villa in Tuscany. What is your very best offer?"

"I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars, and not a cent more. And that's a mighty liberal offer."

"Well, that's all right. I'll let you know to-morrow."

"Why not now?"

"I want to consult my daughter, Caroline."

"Well, I'll not hold my offer open another day. I'll be here to-morrow morning at this time. Please don't keep me waiting. You know I'm a very busy man."

They paid Mr. Foster for their wares, and passed out; one with an old vase, and the other with a brass bowl in his hands.

"I think we've got him!" Hooker overheard one of them say, as the two passed by him in the dimly-lighted room.

Yes. Worse luck. Hooker knew it was useless to make other offers. He had not the bank account to compete with the famous connoisseurs that had just left. And he knew Mr. Foster was a gentleman of the old school, and would not use one offer to secure a better one.

"Good morning, Mr. Foster."

"Why have I the honor of this visit?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I read in the Herald that you were going to move. I would like to know at what price you hold this house and lot?"

"Well, I'd sell cheap. Properties in this section are not worth what they once were. It is assessed at seventy thousand dollars. There is a mortgage on it of sixty. I'd take seventy-five for it. This section is too antiquated for residences, and business is moving uptown.

"But I want it for a residence. May I look through it?"

"Of course!"

Hooker examined all the rooms, noted the old-fashioned plumbing, and said that the whole house needed a thorough going-over.

"Well—I think I'll take it," he said at last. "Do you want the old furniture? I would sooner buy it furnished, that is, if I could buy it at a price!"

This was a golden opportunity for poor Foster. To sell his house with its worn furniture and the vase, in a single day was an achievement!

"I would sell the house and contents entire for eighty-five thousand dollars. I must exempt one vase, however. I've just been offered fifteen thousand dollars for it."

"Not for a single vase?"

"Yes, would you like to see it?"

"It's not much use. But I'm naturally curious."

Mr. Foster, with great dignity, showed the beautiful hawthorn vase. It gleamed silently in the glass case.

"What! Fifteen thousand for that! Perhaps, if it is really worth anything like that, I can afford to speculate. I might obtain a better offer on it. I'll give you ninety-five thousand dollars for the house and its entire furnishings."

"No. The lowest is one hundred thousand."