About this time I recollect a pedlar--an odd, gipsified-looking man--called in at Knowl. I and Catherine Jones were in the court when he came, and set down his pack on the low balustrade beside the door. All sorts of commodities he had--ribbons, cottons, silks, stockings, lace, and even some bad jewellry; and just as he began his display--an interesting matter in a quiet country house--Madame came upon the ground. He grinned a recognition, and hoped 'Madamasel' was well, and 'did not look to see _her_ here.' 'Madamasel' thanked him. 'Yes, vary well,' and looked for the first time decidedly 'put out.' 'Wat a pretty things!' she said. 'Catherine, run and tell Mrs. Rusk. She wants scissars, and lace too--I heard her say.' So Catherine, with a lingering look, departed; and Madame said-- 'Will you, dear cheaile, be so kind to bring here my purse, I forgot on the table in my room; also, I advise you, bring _your_.' Catherine returned with Mrs. Rusk. Here was a man who could tell them something of the old Frenchwoman, at last! Slyly they dawdled over his wares, until Madame had made her market and departed with me. But when the coveted opportunity came, the pedlar was quite impenetrable. 'He forgot everything; he did not believe as he ever saw the lady before. He called a Frenchwoman, all the world over, Madamasel--that wor the name on 'em all. He never seed her in partiklar afore, as he could bring to mind. He liked to see 'em always, 'cause they makes the young uns buy.' This reserve and oblivion were very provoking, and neither Mrs. Rusk nor Catherine Jones spent sixpence with him;--he was a stupid fellow, or worse. Of course Madame had tampered with him. But truth, like murder, will out some day. Tom Williams, the groom, had seen her, when alone with him, and pretending to look at his stock, with her face almost buried in his silks and Welsh linseys, talking as fast as she could all the time, and slipping _money_, he did suppose, under a piece of stuff in his box. In the mean time, I and Madame were walking over the wide, peaty sheep-walks that lie between Knowl and Church Scarsdale. Since our visit to the mausoleum in the wood, she had not worried me so much as before. She had been, indeed, more than usually thoughtful, very little talkative, and troubled me hardly at all about French and other accomplishments. A walk was a part of our daily routine. I now carried a tiny basket in my hand, with a few sandwiches, which were to furnish our luncheon when we reached the pretty scene, about two miles away, whither we were tending. We had started a little too late; Madame grew unwontedly fatigued and sat down to rest on a stile before we had got half-way; and there she intoned, with a dismal nasal cadence, a quaint old Bretagne ballad, about a lady with a pig's head:--