"That's th' sperrit, laddie, that's th' sperrit!" croaked the old
woman. "Afore th' next milestone--on th' lips! All maids love it an'
so'll she, 'spite all 'er skittish ways--on 'er mouth, mind!"
But I hasted away, nor paused until I was some distance down the road,
then glancing back, I saw Diana bestow on this frightful old creature
all that remained of our dinner, and money besides.
"A truly dreadful old person, Diana!" said I, as she joined me. "I
wonder you can stop to consort or speak with such--"
"She's a woman, after all, Peregrine, very old and worn and generally
hungry. And how can it harm me to be a little kind to her?"
"She suggests vile things!"
"What o' that, if she don't do 'em, or make others do 'em?"
"A horrible creature!" I repeated.
"Without a friend in the world, Peregrine."
"Do you happen to be acquainted with every discreditable vagabond
hereabouts, Diana?"
"I knows most o' th' padding kind, trampers and sech. There'll be many
going Tonbridge way to-day and tomorrow, because o' the fair."
"Then cannot we reach Tonbridge by ways unfrequented?"
"There's the field-paths, though 'twill take us a day longer--maybe
two--"
"No matter, let us go by the field-paths, Diana."
So we presently struck off from the great, dusty high-road and went by
ways pleasantly sequestered. By shady copse and rustling cornfield;
past lonely farms and rick-yards; past placid cows that chewed,
somnolent, in the shade of trees or stood knee-deep in stilly pools;
past hop-gardens from whose long, green alleys stole a fragrance warm
and acridly sweet; past rippling streams that murmured drowsily,
sparkling amid mossy boulders or over pebbly beds; past rustics
stooped to their leisured toil who straightened bowed backs to peer
after us under sunburned hands; wheresoever I looked, I found some new
matter for delight.
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