woman, regarding the traceries on the snow at
her feet. 'Most of them larks--you can see the spur. And that's a
rook with his big heavy claws. And there's a hare, Miss--I should say
he was trotting as light as could be--and there's nothing uglier than a
trotting hare--he's like a race-horse walking--all stiff and jolting,
because of the high aunches--haunches, Miss. They're all
bewildered-like, birds and beasts the same. I saw the pad of a fox
close by Rottingdean; he must have come a long way to try for a
poultry-yard. And, what's rarer, I saw a covey of partridges, Miss,
settle down on the sea as I was coming along by Saltdean Gap. They was
tired out, poor things, and not driven before the wind either, but
fighting against it, and going out to sea blind-like; and then I saw
them sink down on to the water, and then the waves knocked them about
anyway. I hear there was a wonderful sight of brent geese up by
Berling Gap yesterday--but I'm keeping you standing in the cold,
Miss----'

'I will walk back with you,' said Nan, turning.

'No, Miss. No, thank you, Miss,' said Sal, sturdily.

'But only as far as Lewes Crescent,' said Nan, with a gentle laugh.
'You know I am going to stop there for the mutton bones. I want to
know what has happened to you since the last time I saw you--that's a
good while ago now.'

'Two things, Miss, has happened that I'm proud of;' said Sal, as the
two set out to face the brisk westerly wind. 'I was taking a turn
through Surrey, and when I was at ----, they told me that a great poet
lived close by there--Mr. ----'

'Of course every one knows Mr. ----,' said Nan.

'I didn't,' said Sal, rather shamefacedly. 'You see, Miss, the two I
showed you are enough company for me; and I haven't got money to buy
books wi'. Well, I was passing near the old gentleman's house, and he
came out, and he spoke to me as we went along the road. He said he had
seen me reading the afternoon before, on the common; and he began to
speak about poetry; and then he asked me if I had read any of Mr.
----'s, without saying he was himself. I was sorry to say no, Miss,
for he was such a kind old gentleman; but he said he would send me
them; and most like they're waiting for me now at Goring, where I gave
him an address. Lor', the questions he asked me!--about Shakespeare
and Burns--you know, Miss, I had them in my bag; and then about myself.
I shouldn't wonder if he wrote a poem about me.'

'Well, that'