It was a dry, windy March month, that year, and he made four good trips before the first of April. Returning home from Newport, by way of Wilmington, with seventy-five dollars clear profit in his pocket, his prospects seemed very cheerful. Could he accomplish two more months of hauling during the year, and the crops should be fair, the money from these sources, and the sale of his wagon and one span, would be something more than enough to discharge the remaining debt. He knew, moreover, how the farm could be more advantageously worked, having used his eyes to good purpose in passing through the rich, abundant fields of Lancaster. The land once his own,--which, like his mother, he could not yet feel,--his future, in a material sense, was assured. Before reaching the Buck Tavern, he overtook a woman plodding slowly along the road. Her rusty beaver hat, tied down over her ears, and her faded gown, were in singular contrast to the shining new scarlet shawl upon her shoulders. As she stopped and turned, at the sound of his tinkling bells, she showed a hard red face, not devoid of a certain coarse beauty, and he recognized Deb. Smith, a lawless, irregular creature, well known about Kennett. “Good-day, Deborah!” said he; “if you are going my way, I can give you a lift.” “He calls me 'Deborah,'” she muttered to herself; then aloud--“Ay, and thank ye, Mr. Gilbert.” Seizing the tail of the near horse with one hand, she sprang upon the wagon-tongue, and the next moment sat upon the board at his side. Then, rummaging in a deep pocket, she produced, one after the other, a short black pipe, an eel-skin tobacco-pouch, flint, tinder, and a clumsy knife. With a dexterity which could only have come from long habit, she prepared and kindled the weed, and was presently puffing forth rank streams, with an air of the deepest satisfaction. “Which way?” asked Gilbert. “Your'n, as far as you go,--always providin' you takes me.” “Of course, Deborah, you're welcome. I have no load, you see.” “Mighty clever in you, Mr. Gilbert; but you always was one o' the clever ones. Them as thinks themselves better born”-- “Come, Deborah, none of that!” he exclaimed. “Ax your pardon,” she said, and smoked her pipe in silence. When she had finished and knocked the ashes out against the front panel of the wagon, she spoke again, in a hard, bitter voice,-- “'Tisn't much difference what _I_ am. I was raised on hard knocks, and now I must git my livin' by 'em. But I axes no'un's help, I'm _that_ proud, anyways. I go my own road, and a straighter one, too, damme, than I git credit for, but I let other people go their'n. You might have wuss company than me, though _I_ say it.”