Outside the throng was a carriage, stopp’d for a minute by this tumult, and a servant at the horses’ heads. By the look of it, ’twas the coach of some person of quality; and glancing at it I saw inside an old gentleman with a grave venerable face, seated. For the moment it flash’d on me I had seen him before, somewhere: and cudgell’d my wits to think where it had been. But a second and longer gaze assured me I was mistaken, and I went on down the street after Joan. She was walking fast and angry; nor when I caught her up and tried to soothe, would she answer me but in the shortest words. Woman’s justice, as I had just learn’d, has this small defect—it goes straight enough, but mainly for the wrong object. Which now I proved in my own case. “Where are you going, Joan?” “To ‘Fifteen Balls’’ stable, for my horse.” “Art not leaving the fair yet, surely!” “That I be, tho’. Have had fairing enow—wi’ a man!” Nor for a great part of the way home would she speak to me. But meeting, by Pound Scawens (a hamlet close to the road), with some friends going to the fair, she stopp’d for a while to chat with them, whilst I rode forward: and when she overtook me, her brow was clear again. “Am a hot headed fool, Jack, and have spoil’d thy day for thee.” “Nay, that you have not,” said I, heartily glad to see her humble, for the first time in our acquaintance: “but if you have forgiven me that which I could not help, you shall take this that I bought for you, in proof.” And pulling out the mirror, I lean’d over and handed it to her. “What i’ the world be this?” she ask’d, taking and looking at it doubtfully. “Why, a mirror.” “What’s that?” “A glass to see your face in,” I explained. “Be this my face?” She rode forward, holding up the glass in front of her. “Why, what a handsome looking gal I be, to be sure! Jack, art certain ’tis my very own face?” “To be sure,” said I amazed. “Well!” There was silence for a full minute, save for our horses’ tread on the high road. And then— “Jack, I be powerful dirty!” This was true enough, and it made me laugh. She looked up solemnly at my mirth (having no sense of a joke, then or ever) and bent forward to the glass again. “By the way,” said I, “did you mark a carriage just outside the crowd, by the Cheap Jack’s booth?—with a white-hair’d gentleman seated inside?” Joan nodded. “Master Hannibal Tingcomb: steward o’ Gleys.” “What!” I jumped in my saddle, and with a pull at the bridle brought Molly to a standstill. “Of Gleys?” I cried. “Steward of Sir Deakin Killigrew that was?” “Right, lad, except the last word. ‘That _is_,’ should’st rather say.” “Then you are wrong, Joan: for he’s dead and buried, these five months. Where is this house of Gleys? for to-morrow I must ride there.”