"Know them, child!" cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek. "Know them! But you're young and know very little, and that's your excuse for asking such a question. Do I look as if I knowed 'em?"
"No, ma'am, no," said the child. "I beg your pardon."
It was granted at once, though the lady still appeared much ruffled by the question. The child then said that they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to the next town on that road, where they meant to spend the night. As the face of the stout lady began to brighten, she asked how far it was. The reply was that the town was eight miles off.
The child could scarcely keep back a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily, and peered forward into the dusky distance.
The lady of the caravan was about to gather her tea-things together, but noting the child's look, she stopped. Nell curtsied, thanked her, and giving her hand to the old man, had already got some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan called to her to return.
"Come nearer, nearer still," said she. "Are you hungry, child?"
"Not very; but we are tired, and it's—it is a long way—"
"Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea," said the lady.—"I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?"
The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat, and thanked her. The lady of the caravan then bade him come up the steps also; but the drum proving an unsuitable table for two, they came down again, and sat upon the grass. The lady then handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread-and-butter, and the ham.
"Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child—that's the best place," said their friend from above. "Now, hand up the teapot for a little more hot water and a pinch of fresh tea, and then both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare anything; that's all I ask of you."