After Betty had kissed her father at least a dozen times, and had shed a few tears just to make her happiness complete, the driver cracked his whip and away we went, out through the courtyard gate, down Gracious Hill and across London Bridge before a sleepy man could have winked his eyes.

At first we thought we were in haste, but when we got out of Southwark and into the country, the dark green grass, the flowering hedges, the whispering leaves of the half-fledged trees, the violets by the roadside, and the smiling sun in the blue above, all invited us to linger.  So we told the driver to slow his pace, and we lowered every window in the coach, there being no one in the country whose wonder and envy we cared to arouse by a display of our glass.

There was not room in Betty’s little heart for all the great flood of happiness that had poured into it, so presently, to give it vent, she began to sing the little French lullaby we had so often heard, whereupon Frances and I ceased listening to the birds, and I was more thoroughly convinced than ever before that there were at least distinct periods of good fortune in every man’s life.

Before reaching Gravesend, we halted at a grassy spot near the river bank, where we ate our dinner.  When the horses had rested, we set off for Rochester, in which place we expected to spend the night at the Maid’s Garter, a famous old inn kept by a friend of Pickerings.

I had noticed a twinkle in Pickering’s eyes when he directed us to go to this tavern, but did not understand the cause of his merriment until I learned that by a curious old custom, a maid seeking entrance for the first time must contribute one of her garters before being admitted.  The worst feature of the usage was that the garter must be taken off at the door, and then and there presented to the porter, who received it on the point of his official staff.

After entering Rochester, we went to the Maid’s Garter and at once drove into the courtyard, as the custom is with travellers intending to remain all night.

When we left the coach and started to climb the steps to the great door, we found the landlord and his retinue waiting to receive us.  Frances was in the lead, and when we reached the broad, flat stone in front of the door, the head porter stepped before her, bowed, and asked humbly:—­

“Is my lady maid or madam?”

Frances looked up in surprise, and he repeated his question.

“What is that to you, fellow?” asked Frances.

“It is this, my lady,” returned the porter.  “If my lady be a maid, she must pay me one of her garters as her admission fee to this inn.  If she be madam, she enters free.  It is a privilege conferred on the Maid’s Garter by good St. Augustine when he was Bishop of Canterbury, so long ago that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.”

“What nonsense is this?” asked Frances, turning to me, and Bettina asked the same question with her eyes.  I explained the matter, and Frances, turning to the porter, said:—­