In the open highway they had progressed in scattered order; but now their route was through a field-gate, and the foremost finding a difficulty in opening it, they closed up together.

This leading pedestrian was Car the Queen of Spades, who carried a wicker-basket containing her mother’s groceries, her own draperies, and other purchases for the week.  The basket being large and heavy, Car had placed it for convenience of porterage on the top of her head, where it rode on in jeopardized balance as she walked with arms akimbo.

“Well—­whatever is that a-creeping down thy back, Car Darch?” said one of the group suddenly.

All looked at Car.  Her gown was a light cotton print, and from the back of her head a kind of rope could be seen descending to some distance below her waist, like a Chinaman’s queue.

“’Tis her hair falling down,” said another.

No; it was not her hair:  it was a black stream of something oozing from her basket, and it glistened like a slimy snake in the cold still rays of the moon.

“’Tis treacle,” said an observant matron.

Treacle it was.  Car’s poor old grandmother had a weakness for the sweet stuff.  Honey she had in plenty out of her own hives, but treacle was what her soul desired, and Car had been about to give her a treat of surprise.  Hastily lowering the basket the dark girl found that the vessel containing the syrup had been smashed within.

By this time there had arisen a shout of laughter at the extraordinary appearance of Car’s back, which irritated the dark queen into getting rid of the disfigurement by the first sudden means available, and independently of the help of the scoffers.  She rushed excitedly into the field they were about to cross, and flinging herself flat on her back upon the grass, began to wipe her gown as well as she could by spinning horizontally on the herbage and dragging herself over it upon her elbows.

The laughter rang louder; they clung to the gate, to the posts, rested on their staves, in the weakness engendered by their convulsions at the spectacle of Car.  Our heroine, who had hitherto held her peace, at this wild moment could not help joining in with the rest.

It was a misfortune—­in more ways than one.  No sooner did the dark queen hear the soberer richer note of Tess among those of the other work-people than a long-smouldering sense of rivalry inflamed her to madness.  She sprang to her feet and closely faced the object of her dislike.

“How darest th’ laugh at me, hussy!” she cried.

“I couldn’t really help it when t’others did,” apologized Tess, still tittering.

“Ah, th’st think th’ beest everybody, dostn’t, because th’ beest first favourite with He just now!  But stop a bit, my lady, stop a bit!  I’m as good as two of such!  Look here—­here’s at ’ee!”

To Tess’s horror the dark queen began stripping off the bodice of her gown—­which for the added reason of its ridiculed condition she was only too glad to be free of—­till she had bared her plump neck, shoulders, and arms to the moonshine, under which they looked as luminous and beautiful as some Praxitelean creation, in their possession of the faultless rotundities of a lusty country-girl.  She closed her fists and squared up at Tess.