s modest,' said Nan, with another quiet laugh.

Sal did not at all like that gentle reproof.

'It isn't my pride, Miss; it's what he said to me that I go by,' she
retorted. 'I didn't ask him.'

'If he does, all England will hear about you then,' said Nan. 'And
now, what was the other thing?'

Sal again grew shamefaced a little. She opened the inner side of her
wallet, took out a soiled, weather-beaten copy of the _Globe_
Shakespeare, and from it extracted a letter.

'Perhaps you would like to read it yourself, Miss,' she suggested.

Nan took it, and had little difficulty in deciphering its contents,
though the language was occasionally a trifle hyperbolical. It
contained nothing less than an offer of marriage addressed to Sal by a
sailor in one of Her Majesty's ironclads, who said that he was tired of
the sea, and that, if Sal would give up her wandering life, so would
he, and he would retire into the coastguard. He pointed out the
sacrifices he was ready to make for her; for it appeared that he was a
petty officer. No matter; he was willing to become simple A.B. again;
for he had his 'feelin's;' and if so be as she would become his wife,
then they would have a good weather-proof cottage, a bit of garden, and
three-and-fourpence a day. It was a most business-like, sensible offer.

'And I'm sure I could do something for him,' Nan eagerly said. 'I
think I could get him promotion. The Senior Naval Lord of the
Admiralty is a friend of mine. And wouldn't it be better for you?'

'No, Miss,' said Sal, with an odd kind of smile. 'I was glad to get
the letter, for it shows I'm respected. But I'm not going to be caged
yet. I never saw or heard of the man I would marry--except it might
have been Robbie Burns, if he was still alive. Sometimes when I've
been reading a bit, coming along the downs all by myself like, I've
seen somebody in the distance; and I've said to myself, "Well, now, if
that was only to turn out to be that black-a-vised Ayrshire ploughman,
it would be all over with me; it would be 'Whistle and I'll come to ye,
my lad.'" And then some shambling fellow of a labourer has come along,
straw-haired, bent-backed, twisted-kneed, and scarcely enough spirit in
him to say, "Marnin t' ye--good marnin t' ye, wench!"'

'You are very independent,' said the sage Nan. 'And that's all very
well, as long as your health lasts. But you might become ill. You
would want relatives and friends, and a home. And