After a little of this she was disturbed by a thick-set, middle-aged farmer rattling by in a springless cart. At sight of her he stopped, stared, but not too curiously, got out and addressed her:
"Peddler's goods, I see," he said.
She nodded.
"Had you any thoughts o' going up Endover way?" he inquired, "it's out o' way, somewhat, but my wife was wishing only yesterday for some cooking ware, and but that you need to make village by dark——"
"I do not need to, unless I choose," she assured him; "my time is my own."
"Ay, is it?" he said. "There's few trades can say that, these days,—is that why you gypsies take to this one, maybe?"
"Maybe," she said, smiling gravely.
"You're new to these parts, I think," he went on, "though there'll be plenty o' your kind before summer's gone—few as thrifty to look at, though. I'll lay your cloth's not rotten."
"That's true," she said, rising and beginning to wash her simple cooking pots. "Which turn for Endover, farmer?"
"First to the left after Appleyard's woods," he began, and at her start and cry of "Appleyard?" he explained, "Why, yes, it's hard to change old names. Appleyards ran out when I was a boy, but the name sticks. Hundred years ago, an old farmer Appleyard owned most o' what you'll see from here. My granny knowed one of 'em well; a well-to-do woman she was, and her husband got all the land, or near it, account o' the brother's running away to foreign parts."