The only troublesome feature of the trip was that Mrs. Sowerbutt’s lodgers had suddenly left for London and she was unable to take the four rabbits as she had hoped; but as an offset to that piece of ill-fortune the Coke and Coal Yard and the Bicycle Repairing Rooms came out into the street, and, stepping up to the trap, requested regular weekly deliveries of eggs and chickens, and hoped that I would be able to bring them myself.  And so, in a happy frame of mind, I turned out of the Buffington main street, and was jogging along homeward, when a very startling thing happened; namely, a whole verse of the Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington:—­

   “And as she went along the high road,
   The weather being hot and dry,
   She sat her down upon a green bank,
   And her true love came riding by.”

That true lovers are given to riding by, in ballads, I know very well, but I hardly supposed they did so in real life, especially when every precaution had been taken to avert such a catastrophe.  I had told the Barbury Green postmistress, on the morning of my arrival, not to give the Thornycroft address to anybody whatsoever, but finding, as the days passed, that no one was bold enough or sensible enough to ask for it, I haughtily withdrew my prohibition.  About this time I began sending envelopes, carefully addressed in a feigned hand, to a certain person at the Oxenbridge Hydro.  These envelopes contained no word of writing, but held, on one day, only a bit of down from a hen’s breast, on another, a goose-quill, on another, a glossy tail-feather, on another, a grain of corn, and so on.  These trifles were regarded by me not as degrading or unmaidenly hints and suggestions, but simply as tests of intelligence.  Could a man receive tokens of this sort and fail to put two and two together?  I feel that I might possibly support life with a domineering and autocratic husband,—­and there is every prospect that I shall be called upon to do so,—­but not with a stupid one.  Suppose one were linked for ever to a man capable of asking,—­“Did you send those feathers? . . .  How was I to guess? . . .  How was a fellow to know they came from you? . . .  What on earth could I suppose they meant? . . .  What clue did they offer me as to your whereabouts? . . .  Am I a Sherlock Holmes?”—­No, better eternal celibacy than marriage with such a being!

These were the thoughts that had been coursing through my goose-girl mind while I had been selling dressed poultry, but in some way they had not prepared me for the appearance of the aforesaid true love.