was
at that moment in front of the holly-bush, and he saw Mercy lying behind
it.

Her face was worn and pale, her bonnet fallen back from her forehead,
her head leaning against the trunk of the tree, one hand on her breast,
the other straying aside on the drift of yellow leaves, where a little
bundle covered by a red handkerchief had fallen from her graspless
fingers, and the radiant morning sunlight over all.

The driver of the wagon jumped to the ground. At the same moment Mercy
awoke with a frightened look. She rose to her feet, and would have
hurried away.

"Young to be wagranting about, ain't ye, miss?" said the driver. His
tone was kindlier than his words.

"Let me go, please," said Mercy, and she tried to pass.

"Coorse, coorse; if yer wants to."

Mercy thanked him, her eyes on the ground. She was already on the road.

"Being as you're going my way, I ain't objecting to giving you a lift."

"No, thank you. I have no--I've no money. I must run."

"You'll wait till I ax for it, won't ye, missy? Come, get up."

"And will you let me go down whenever I like?"

"Coorse I will; why not? Up with ye! There, easy, kneel on the shaft,
that's the size of it. Now, go set yourself down on them sacks. Them's
apples, them is. Right? Very well. We're off, then."

The wagon was about half full of sacks, and Mercy crept down in the
furthest corner.

"I ain't in the apple line reg'lar. I'm a fern-gatherer, that's wot I
am. On'y nature don't keep ferning all the year round, so I'se forced to
go fruiting winter times--buying apples same as them from off'n the
farmers down the country, and bringing 'em up to Covent Garden. That's
where I'm going now, that is. And got to be there afore the sales
starts."

Mercy listened, but said nothing.

"You know Covent Garden--not fur from Leicester Square and the
Haymarket?"

Mercy shook her head.

"What! Never been there--and that near?"

Mercy shook her head again and dropped her eyes.

The driver twisted about to look at her. "Let a be, she's feeling it
bad," he thought, and was silent for a moment. Then he twisted about for
another look.

"I say, missy, got bad eyes?"

"They're sore, and a little dim," said Mercy.

"Blest if you don't look the spitting image of a friend of mine--'boutn
the eyes, I mean--red and swelled up and such. It was Tom Crow, a
partner of mine, in fact. Tom caught cold sleeping out one night as we
was ferning down Roger Tichborne's estates--