her embarrassment, the evening, which had been fine, was
beginning to cloud over, the darkness of the sky hastening the approach
of the dusk. She had now farther to walk than she had when in the
village; and, added to the threatenings of the clouds, there were
frequent flashings of pale lightning, and remote murmurings of thunder.
But Tamar was not easily alarmed; she had been brought up independently,
and already had she recovered the direct path from the village to
Shanty's shed, when suddenly a tall figure of a female arose, as it
were, out of the broom and gorse, and stepped in the direction in which
she was going, walking by her side for a few paces without speaking
a word.

The figure was that of a gipsy, and the garments, as Tamar glanced
fearfully at them as they floated in a line with her steps, bespoke a
variety of wretchedness scarcely consistent with the proud and elastic
march of her who wore them.

Whilst Tamar felt a vague sense of terror stealing over her, the woman
spoke, addressing her without ceremony, saying, "So you have been driven
to come this way at last; have you been so daintily reared that you
cannot wade a burn which has scarcely depth enough to cover the pebbles
in its channel. Look you," she added, raising her arm, and pointing her
finger,--"see you yon rising ground to the left of those fir trees on
the edge of the moor,--from the summit of that height the sea is
visible, and I must, ere many hours, be upon those waters, in such a
bark as you delicately-bred dames would not confide in on a summer's
day on Ulswater Mere."

Whilst the woman spoke, Tamar looked to her and then from her, but not a
word did she utter.

"Do you mind me?" said the gipsy; "I have known you long, aye very long.
You were very small when I brought you to this place. I did well for you
then. Are you grateful?"

Tamar now did turn and look at her, and looked eagerly, and carefully,
and intently on her dark and weather-beaten countenance.

"Ah!" said the gipsy, whilst a smile of scorn distorted her lip,--"so
you will demean yourself now to look upon me; and you would like to know
what I could tell you?"

"Indeed, indeed, I would!" exclaimed Tamar, all flushed and trembling.
"Oh, in pity, in mercy tell me who I am and who are my parents?--if
they still live; if I have any chance or--hope of seeing them?"

"One is no more," replied the gipsy. "She from whom I took you lies in
the earth on Norwood Common. I stret