CHAP. IL—MY LADY.

NE day, as I was in the middle of a fierce
battle with the butcher, the snapping of a
rotten stick under somebody’s tread made me look
round, and I beheld a lady close to me. She
smiled, and asked me, I think—for I was too much
what game

 

startled to pay attention to her words
I was playing at so eagerly. But I never had
seen a lady so near in all my life, and for a moment
I stood and stared; then, basely forsaking cow,
make-believe calf, and half-conquered butcher, I
took to my heels, and did not return until I had
seen the lady safely off the ground.

The only gentlefolks in the neighbourhood were
Squire Prickard and his wife, and Mr. Phelps, the
clergyman. Mr. Phelps had neither wife nor
daughter, and Mrs. Pickard was an invalid, and was
hardly ever seen beyond her garden gate. So to
me, who never went either to church or to the
market town, a lady was as rare and startling a