White Hawk Fair, as it is termed, has attracted much company to the Race Down to-day, though but few individuals of fashionable note were to be seen in the throng. Connected with this Down is the LEGEND OF THE WHITE HAWK LADY. Less than half a century since, the remnant of a moss-covered unhewn stone marked the spot in Ovingdean churchyard, where, as gossips then said, were deposited the remains of Margaret Ladrone, probably a name conferred on her from the pilfering propensities of the gipsies, a tribe to which she belonged, though she was familiarly spoken of as “Mag Lade,” a sybil or fortune-teller of her day, whose visits to Ovingdean were annual in the month of August, on the occasion of White Hawk Fair, a holiday gathering on White Hawk Down, at which the rustics were wont to learn their fate of the wise woman, as she was termed by the unmarried who would know the future through the vista of happiness; but the old crone or witch, by those whose stern thought attributed all the mishaps that befel either themselves or their substance to the influence of an evil one, with whom she was proclaimed to be in league. At other periods of the year she practised her vocation in various places throughout the county, so that she had a regular circuit, through the course of which the burning fervour of youth hailed her advent with earnest anticipations, equalled only by the dread entertained by mature age, that blight and murrain were her attendants. It happened on one occasion, the date whereof is immaterial, that Editha Elmore, the only daughter of the rich squire of Woodingdean, while intent on the palmistry of Mag,—whose hand she had crossed with a broad silver piece,—by chance cast her eyes upon the form of a dark young man of goodly mien, the very type of him whom the gipsey prophetess essayed to be her future husband. In the next country-dance he was her partner, and also the envy of one who, from their childhood, had been her companion, and was looked upon by the parents of each as her intended bridegroom. The festivities of the day closed; the dark stranger bade her adieu; the villagers returned to their homes; and ere the shades of night had gathered over the Downs, not a vestige was left of the scene which had been one of general festivity. Ralph Mascall, the son of the farmer at the Grange, Ovingdean, as had been his custom from a child, accompanied the fair Editha to Woodingdean, where he received the accustomed welcome of her parents; and, before midnight, he was on his way homewards somewhat disturbed in mind that he had a rival. His visits, however, to Squire Elmore’s were not the less frequent; nor did the affection shown towards him by Editha in the least appear to wane. And so another year passed on, and the annual festival again arrived. There again was Mag, whom Editha sought once more, to learn her destiny. The Fates had not altered their decree; and there, as