would not do for other reasons. The girl coloured as she walked and pondered on the perplexed question of her future.
She then considered whether it would be advisable for her to dispose of her van and its contents. But she saw that she could do so only at a ruinous loss. Her situation would be taken advantage of. The damaged goods would not sell at all, unhelped out in the exaggerations, lies, the flourish and scuffle of a public auction. All the articles were not, indeed, like the tin kettle and the 'own plantation tea.' Some were really good. A majority were good, but the collection was spiced with infirm and defective articles.
If she did dispose of the van and her stock, what should she do with herself? Into service she could not go—the bondage would be intolerable. Into a school she could not go—she had no education. To become a dressmaker was not possible—she could not cut out. To enter a factory of any sort was hardly to be considered. She knew no trade. She could befool the general public—that was her sole accomplishment.
As she walked along, musing on her difficulties, she was caught up by a young man, dressed in deep mourning. At first he made as though he would pass her by, for he was walking at a greater pace than hers, but after a few steps in advance he halted, turned back, and said in a kind tone—
'We are both orphans. You lost your father on the same night as that on which I lost mine. They have been buried on the same day, and the same service has been read over both. I am Mark Runham; you are the Cheap Jack girl.'
'Yes, I am Cheap Jack Zita.'
'I could not call you by any other name; your real name I did not know. Let us walk together, unless you desire to be alone.'
'Oh no.'
'When I was in the waggon, with my dead father in the coffin before me, I looked forward, and then I saw you—you, poor little thing, sitting alone, with your head bowed down over your father's coffin. I thought it infinitely sad. You were all alone, and I had so many with me.'
Zita turned her face to him.
'You are very kind,' she said.
'Not at all. My heart is sore because I have lost my father—but there is so much to take the sharpness off my pain; I have my mother alive. And you?'
'My mother has been dead these five years.'
'And I have many relatives, and more friends. But you?'
'I have none. I am alone in the world.'
'And then I have house and lands. And you?'
'I have the van.'
'A wandering house—no real house. What are you going to do with yourself?'
'That is just what I was considering as I walked along.'
'Will you tell me your plan?'
'I have none. I have not resolved what to do.'
'I am glad that I have caught you up. I sent on the waggon. I had to stay behind and make arrangements with the undertaker and the clerk. I am glad I remained; it has given me the opportunity of speaking with you. Our mutual losses make us fellows in sorrow, and you seem to me so piteously lonely. Even when I was in the wain my eyes wandered to you, and with my eyes went my thoughts. I could not fail to consider how much greater was your desolation than mine.'
Again Zita turned to look at the young fellow who spoke. He had fair hair, bright blue eyes, a fresh, pleasant face, frank and kindly.
'I think you sold something to my father,' he said; 'I have heard the chaps talk about it. You sold it middling dear. A flail—and he paid a guinea for it.'
'Yes, I sold a flail for a guinea, and another for twelve and six. Mr. Drownlands bought one of them.'
'And my father the other. I was not at the fair when that took place, but folk have talked about it. I think, had I been there, I would have prevented my father bidding so high. The flail was not found with him when he was recovered from the river.'
'No; it was on the bank.'
'It was probably carried down by the Lark,' said he, not noticing her words, 'and went out in the Wash.'
The flail! Zita was surprised. One flail she knew that Drownlands held when she met him, the other she had herself picked up, and had used to prevent him from continuing his course, and to compel him to assist her father.
She stood still and considered. The matter was, however, of no consequence, so she stepped on. If she found the flail at Prickwillow, she would take it to Crumbland. It belonged to Mark Runham by right.
'What is it?' asked the young man, surprised at her look of concentrated thought.
'It is nothing particular,' she answered; 'something occurred to me—that is all. But it is of no matter.'
'I should like to know what is going to become of you,' said the young man. 'Have you no kindred at all?'
'None that I know of.'
'And no home?'
'None, as I said, but the van. When that is sold, I shall have none at all.'
'But you have friends?'
'A friend—yes—Jewel, the old horse. Well, he ain't so old, neither. I call him old because I love him.'
'I say, when you've made up your mind what to do with yourself, come to our farm, Crumbland, and tell me.'
'That's blazin' impudence,' said Zita. 'If you want to know, you can come and ask of me.'
'I cannot do that. Do you not know that my father and Ki Drownlands were mortal enemies? I cannot set foot on his soil, or he would prosecute me for trespass. If I went to his door, I would be met with something more than bad words.'
'Why were they enemies?'
'I do not know. They have been enemies as long as I can remember anything. Well, you will let me have some tidings concerning you. I will come out on the embankment near Prickwillow, and you can come there too. It is so dreadful that you should have no one to care for you, and no place as a home to go to. If I can help you in any way tell me. My mother is most kind. As it has chanced that we have both been made orphans at one time, and as our two fathers were buried, as one may say, together, and as we are walking home together, it seems to me that it would be wrong and heartless were I to do nothing for you. To sit and nestle into my home and comforts at Crumbland and see you wander forth desolate and alone—the Pharisee couldn't have done half so bad with the poor man by the wayside, and I won't. I should never forgive myself. I should never forget the sight of the poor little lass in black, with the coffin in the great waggon, all alone.'
'You are kind,' said Zita, touched with the honest, genuine feeling his tones expressed. 'I thank you, but I want no help. I have money, I have goods, I have a horse, and I have a home on wheels. And I have—what is best of all—a spirit that will carry me along.'
'Yes; but one little girl is a poor and feeble thing, and the world is very wide and very wicked, and terribly strong. I'd be sorry that this bold spirit of yours were crushed by it.'
'Here is the place where I live,' said Zita.
'Yes, that's Prickwillow drove. Here am I, eighteen years old, and I have never been along it—never been on Drownlands
