“Of course, Harriet was exposed to some raillery and a good deal of questioning about her future fate, as to which she preserved an obstinate but evidently satisfied silence. At the end of three days, however, [the prescribed period] when all the family except herself had forgotten the story, our pretty soubrette, half bursting with the long retention, took the opportunity of lacing on my new half-boots to reveal the prophecy. ‘She was to see within the week, and this was Saturday, the young man, the real young man, whom she was to marry.’ “‘Why, Harriet, you know, poor Joel.’ “‘Joel indeed! the gipsy said that the young man, the real young man, was to ride up to the house dressed in a dark great-coat (and Joel never wore a great-coat in his life—all the world knew that he wore smock-frocks and jackets) and mounted on a white horse—and where should Joel get a white horse?’ “‘Had this real young man made his appearance yet?’ “‘No; there had not been a white horse past the place since Tuesday; so it must certainly be to-day.’ “A good look-out did Harriet keep for white horses during this fateful Saturday, and plenty did she see. It was the market day at B——, and team after team came by with one, two and three white horses; cart after cart and gig after gig, each with a white steed; Colonel M——‘s carriage, with its prancing pair—but still no horseman. At length one appeared, but he had a great-coat whiter than the animal he rode; another, but he was old farmer Lewington, a married man; a third, but he was little Lord L——, a schoolboy on his Arabian pony. Besides, they all passed the house.... “At last, just at dusk, just as Harriet, making believe to close our casement shutters, was taking her last peep up the road something white appeared in the distance coming leisurely down the hill. Was it really a horse? Was it not rather Titus Strong’s cow driving home to milking? A minute or two dissipated that fear; it certainly was a horse, and as certainly it had a dark rider. Very slowly he descended the hill, pausing most provokingly at the end of the village, as if about to turn up the Vicarage lane. He came on, however, and after another short stop at the ‘Rose,’ rode full up to our little gate, and catching Harriet’s hand as she was opening the wicket, displayed to the half-pleased, half-angry damsel the smiling, triumphant face of her own Joel Brent, equipped in a new great-coat and mounted on his master’s newly purchased market nag. Oh, Joel! Joel! The gipsy! the gipsy!” CHAPTER XXXIV A CENTRE OF INTEREST As Mary Russell Mitford’s fame as a writer began to spread wider and wider her cottage became a centre of interest and attraction to all those who had learnt to love her works. Her chief biographer[16]—a contemporary—writes: [Footnote 16: Rev. A. G. L’Estrange.]