"Well I sees strange things among the Romans; there's the _dukkerin_ and _dukkeripen_, an' the Walkers o' the Heath. They're a strange folk, the Romans--'specially old Azor!" "But you are not afraid--never have been?" "No," she answered, shaking her head slowly, "I've never been afeard of anything or any one yet--except old Azor." And beholding her as she said this, observing the proud cast of her features, the lofty carriage of her head, her compelling eyes, resolute chin and the noble lines of her form, I knew she spoke truth and began to doubt if she were no more than a mere comely, well-shaped young female, after all. "Pray, what is your name?" I enquired. "Anna." "Indeed it is a pretty name, though you are more like my conception of Diana." "Who's she?" "She was a young goddess." "A goddess?" repeated my companion in her deep, soft voice, "that don't sound much like me." "A goddess, very brave and strong, who despised all men and feared none!" "That does sound more like me! Though I thought all goddesses were beautiful?" she added wistfully. "So they were," I nodded, "but how do you know this?" "From Jerry Jarvis--" "What, the Tinker?" I exclaimed. "Do you mean the tinker who calls himself a 'literary cove'--the wonderful tinker who writes excellent poetry and travels about with a pony named Diogenes?" "Yes, there be only one Jerry Jarvis," answered my companion. "'Twas Jerry taught me to write and lent me books to read. I've known him since I can remember and he was always kind. Jerry's a good man!" "And writes real poetry!" I nodded. "At least I think so. I should like to meet him again." "Well, he'll be Tonbridge way about now. I knows all his rounds an' he's reg'lar as a clock." "Do you know the way to Tonbridge?" "Of course!" "Yes, I'll go to Tonbridge to-morrow; you shall tell me the best way to get there, if you will." "'Tis very sure you are better of your beating." "Yes, thank God!" I answered. "Though your eyes will be black to-morrow." "Which will serve me right and properly for my cowardice." "But you're not afeard o' ghosts!" "Heaven knows," quoth I bitterly, "I might be if I saw one. And as for solitude, I don't think I should care to stay here alone night after night and day after day as you seem to have done." "Oh, you gets used to it." "But how do you pass your time in this solitude?" "Reads mostly, and makes my baskets; there be few can ekal me at rush or willow. And there's good money in baskets!" "What books have you read?" "Not so many as I'd like." "Tell me some of them." "Well there's the 'Castle of Otranto' and Virgil and 'Peregrine Pickle' and the Psalms, and 'Tom Jones' and John Milton's Poems, 'Tristram Shandy.' Dryden, Plutarch's lives--oh, and a lot beside--" "And which do you like best?" For answer she reached the six volumes from amongst her pots and pans and these I found to be: Shakespeare, 'Tristram Shandy,' the Bible, Anson's Voyages and 'Robinson Crusoe.'