er by a crowd of men. That
was what the young lady was thinking in her mind; and if ever you spend
that two shillings, Sal, you'll be a mean wretch." And many's the time
I thought I would like to speak to ye, Miss, if only as it might be to
ask your name.'

This woman was frank even to boldness in her scrutiny, and her manner
was rough and ready; but there was a touch of something fine about
her--something true, downright, unmistakable--that somehow won people's
confidence. Nan Beresford drew nearer to her, though she remained
standing.

'Is there anything----?' said Nan; and then she stopped. She was about
to ask if there was anything she could do for this new acquaintance;
but she suddenly reflected that the young woman was smartly dressed and
apparently well-to-do. Singing Sal quickly broke in on her
embarrassment.

'Yes,' she said, smiling, 'you don't like my making a show of
myself--singing for coppers in the street. But isn't there worse than
that among the people you live among, Miss? Mind, I see life in the
rough; I can't always choose my company; and I have to take things as
they come; but when I hear of very fine young ladies--mind, not poor
girls driven by starvation, or forced to support a sick mother, or
kicked out of doors by a drunken father--and these fine ladies going
and selling themselves for so many thousands a year and a swell
carriage--well, it sounds queer, I think. But I'm sure, Miss,' she
said, regarding the girl, 'you won't make a marriage for money. You
don't look like that.'

Again Nan Beresford flushed hastily; and she said, with a touch of
anger, 'I prefer not to speak of such things. I am tired of listening
to women who can talk of nothing but sweethearts and marriage. Surely
there are other matters of as much importance----'

But then it occurred to her that this was scarcely civil; so she turned
to this pleasant-looking stranger and said, with a grave courtesy, 'I
presume you are returning to Brighton?'

'Yes, I am.'

'To remain there?'

Sal laughed in her quiet way.

'Lord love you, my dear young lady, I never saw the town yet that could
hold me for more than a couple o' nights. I live in the open. This is
what I like best--open sea, open sky, open downs. I do believe my
forefathers were either gipsies, or else they had had a good dose o'
the treadmill; for I'm never content but when I'm on the trudge--wet
weather or fine, all's the same to me; but foursquare