Then, far away, and showing very black against the white, she perceived the figure of a woman, and instantly jumped to the conclusion that that must be Singing Sal. But what was Sal—if it were she—about? That dark figure was wildly swaying one arm like an orator declaiming to an excited assemblage. Had the dramatic stimulus of the previous night's entertainment—Nan asked herself—got into the woman's brain? Was she reciting poetry to that extravagant gesturing? Nan walked more slowly now, and took breath; while the woman, whoever she was, evidently was coming along at a swinging pace.
No; that was no dramatic gesture. It was too monotonous. It looked more as if she were sowing—to imperceptible furrows. Nan's eyes were very long-sighted, but this thing puzzled her altogether. She now certainly looked like a farmer's man scattering seed-corn.
Singing Sal saw and recognised her young-lady friend at some distance, and seemed to moderate her gestures, though these did not quite cease. When she came up, Nan said to her,
'What are you doing?'
'Well, Miss,' she said, with a bright smile—her face was quite red with the cold air, and her hair not so smooth as she generally kept it—'my arm does ache, to tell the truth. And my barley's nearly done. I have tried to scatter it wide, so as the finches and larks may have a chance, even when the jackdaws and rooks are at it.'
'Are you scattering food for the birds, then?'
'They're starved out in this weather, Miss; and then the boys come out wi' their guns; and the dicky-laggers are after them too——'
'The what?'
'The bird-catchers, Miss. If I was a farmer now, I'd take a horsewhip, I would, and I'd send those gentry double quick back to Whitechapel. And the gentle-folks, Miss, it isn't right of them to encourage the trapping of larks when there's plenty of other food to be got. Well, my three-penn'orth o' barley that I bought in Newhaven is near done now.'
She looked into the little wallet that she had twisted round in front of her.