’Twas a meagre, sharp-visag’d fellow with a grey chin beard like a billy goat’s; and (as fortune would have it) spying our approach, he picked out a mirror from his stock and holding it aloft, addressed us straight—
“What have we here,” cries he, “but a pair o’ lovers coming? and what i’ my hand but a lover’s hourglass? Sure the stars of heav’n must have a hand in this conjuncture—and only thirteen pence, my pretty fellow, for a glass that will tell the weather i’ your sweetheart’s face, and help make it fine.”
There were many country fellows with their maids in the crowd, that turned their heads at this address; and as usual the women began.
“Tis Joan o’ the Tor!”
“Joan’s picked up wi’ a sweetheart—tee-hee!—an’ us reckoned her’d forsworn mankind!”
“Who is he?”
“Some furriner, sure: that likes garlic.”
“He’s bought her no ribbons yet.”
“How should he, poor lad; that can find no garments upon her to fasten ’em to?”
And so on, with a deal of spiteful laughter. Some of these sayings were half truth, no doubt: but the truthfullest word may be infelix. So noting a dark flush on Joan’s cheek, I thought to end the scene by taking the Cheap Jack’s mirror on the spot, to stop his tongue, and then drawing her away.