It is necessary, to prepare the reader properly for the morrow, to go back a few days or weeks, possibly, and tell of a sentimental encounter that befell me one day as I was going for a walk in that green world which encompassed Bridgely Level. It was a most delightful spectacle. Along the yellowish road before me, with its border of green grass and green though leafless trees, there was approaching a most interesting figure of a woman, a chic, dashing bit of femininity,--at once (the presumption, owing to various accompanying details was mine) wife, mother, chatelaine,--as charming a bit of womanhood and English family sweetness as I had yet seen in England. English women, by and large, let me state here, are not smart, at least those that I encountered; but here was one dressed after the French fashion in trig, close-fitting blue, outlining her form perfectly, a little ermine cap of snowy whiteness set jauntily over her ear, her smooth black hair parted demurely over her forehead, a white muff warming her hands, and white spats emphasizing the trim leather of her foot gear. Her eyes were dark brown, her cheeks rosy, her gait smart and tense. I could scarcely believe she was English, the mother of the three-year-old in white and red wool, a little girl, who was sitting astride a white donkey, which, in turn, was led by a trim maid or nurse or governess in somber brown,--but it was quite plain that she was. There was such a wise, sober look about all this smartness, such a taut, buttressed conservatism, that I was enchanted. It was such a delightful picture to encounter of a clear December morning that, in the fashion of the English, I exclaimed, “My word! This is something like!” I went back to the house that afternoon determined to make inquiries. Perhaps she was a neighbor,--a friend of the family! Of all the individuals who have an appropriate and superior taste for the smart efforts of the fair sex, commend me to Barfleur. His interest and enthusiasm neither flags nor fails. Being a widower of discretion he knows exactly what is smart for a woman as well as a man, and all you have to do to make him prick up his ears attentively is to mention trig beauty as existing in some form, somewhere,--not too distant for his adventuring. “What’s this?” I can see his eye lighting. “Beauty? A lovely woman? When? Where?” This day, finding Wilkins in the garden trimming some bushes, I had said, “Wilkins, do you know any family hereabouts that keeps a white donkey?” Wilkins paused and scratched his ear reflectively. “No, sir! I cawn’t say has I do, sir. I might harsk, sir, down in the village, hif you’re very hanxious to know.” Be it known by all men that I feed Wilkins amply for all services performed,--hence his interest. “Never mind for the present, Wilkins,” I replied. “I may want to know. If so, I’ll ask you.” I knew he would inquire anyhow.