Them I was traversing, when, lo! near sweet eventide a fair horsewoman riding with her groom at her horse's heels.

"Lady," says I, addressing her, as much out of the style of the needy as possible, "will you condescend to direct me to Fallowfield ?"--"Are you going to the match ?" says she.

I answered boldly that I was.

"Beckley's in," says she, "and you'll be in time to see them out, if you cut across the downs there." I lifted my hat--a desperate measure, for the brim won't bear much--but honour to women though we perish.

She bowed: I cut across the downs.