On the eventful morning of the Show all the inhabitants of Thorncombe Farm assembled to see Rebecca start. Charl’ was to drive her to the town, for, as he explained, it would never do for her to let on she was hearty enough to walk such a distance. “If I was you, Beck,” he added, “I’d make out to have a bit of a limp. ’Twould go far to make ye evener like wi’ Bithey.” “Nay,” returned Rebecca stoutly, “I was never one for makin’ out what wasn’t true.” “Smooth down your hair a bit under your bonnet,” advised Mrs. Meatyard anxiously. “It mid be any colour tucked away like that.” As this injunction could be obeyed without detriment to her principles, the old woman pushed back her bonnet and pulled into greater prominence her scanty snowy side-locks. Then she climbed into the cart, with a palpitating heart, and sat clutching at her umbrella while they jogged out of the yard, and down the green lane, and out on the dusty high road. Mr. and Mrs. Meatyard did not make their appearance at the Show till the afternoon, when most of the judging was over, and only that important part of the programme which related to various feats of horsemanship remained to be carried out. “Let’s hunt up Becky afore we go to look at the jumpin’,” said the farmer to his wife, as they passed through the turnstile and threaded their way amid the various stalls and pens containing exhibits from all parts of the neighbourhood. Here a beautiful little red Devon cow thrust a moist protesting nose through the railings; there a sturdy black-faced ram made abortive butts with his curled horns at the passers-by; yonder a pen of cackling geese flapped distracted wings and extended yards of snowy neck with prodigious outcry; and now there was a stampede among the ever-increasing crowd, as a great cart-colt was led past floundering and kicking. The Meatyards stared about them, and wondered and commented, and had almost forgotten Becky in their interest and excitement, when they suddenly came upon her, walking arm-in-arm with no other person than her rival Bithey. “Why bless me, Rebecca, so here ye be!” cried the farmer. “And Bithey, too. What! Han’t ye been judged yet? An’ who’s the winner?” “What does he say?” asked Tabitha plaintively of the other competitor, and the Meatyards noticed with surprise that her tone was meek, and indeed confiding. “Master do want to know if we’ve a’ been judged yet, my dear,” returned Becky soothingly. “I reckon he’ll be surprised when he do hear how we’ve a-been used.” “’Ees indeed,” sighed Bithey, and she wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl. “There, don’t take ’ee on, my dear,” said Rebecca, patting her hand affectionately. “The poor soul,” she explained, turning to the farmer and his wife, who were gazing at the pair open-mouthed, “the poor soul do seem to be quite undone. I d’ ’low ’twas a shame to go and disapp’int her so. ’Twill ha’ gied her quite a turn—at her age an’ all.”