to
the faculties, and added, if possible, to the misery I was in on
account of Winifred. Suddenly my progress was arrested. I had fallen
violently against something. A human body, a woman! I thrust out my
hand and seized a woman's damp arm.

'Winifred,' I cried, 'it's Henry.'

'I thought as much.' said the voice of the Gypsy girl I had met at
the wayside inn, and she seized me by the throat with a fearful grip.
'You've been to the cottage and skeared her away, and now she's seed
you there she'll never come back; she'll wander about the hills till
she drops down dead, or falls over the brinks.'

'O God!' I cried, as I struggled away from her. 'Winifred! Winifred!

There was silence between us then.

'You seem mighty fond on her, young man,' said the Gypsy at length,
in a softened voice, 'and you don't strike out at me for grabbin'
your throat.'

'Winifred! Winifred!' I said, as I thought of her on the hills on a
night like this.

'You seem mighty fond on her, young man,' repeated the girl's voice
in the darkness.

But I could afford no words for her, so cruelly was misery lacerating
me.

'Reia,' said the Gypsy, 'did I hurt your throat just now? I hope I
didn't; but you see she was the only one of 'em ever I liked, Gorgio
or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, lad or wench. I know'd her as a child,
and arterwards, when a fine English lady, as poor as a church-mouse,
tried to spile her, a-makin' _her_ a fine lady too, I thought she'd
forget all about me. But not she. I never once called at Mrs.
Davies's house with my crwth, as she taught me to play on, but out
Winnie would come with her bright eyes an' say, "Oh, I'm so glad!"
She meant she was glad to see me, bless the kind heart on her. An'
when I used to see her on the hills, she'd come runnin' up to me, and
she'd put her little hand in mine, she would, an' chatter away, she
would, as we went up an' up. An' one day, when she heard me callin'
one o' the Romany chies sister, she says, "Is that your sister?" an'
when I says, "No; but the Romany chies call each other sister," then
says she, pretending not to know all about our Romany ways, "Sinfi,
I'm very fond on you, may _I_ call you sister?" An' she had sich
ways; an' she's the only Gorgio or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, as I
ever liked, lad or wench.'

The Gypsy's simple words came like a new message of comfort and hope,
but I could not speak.

'Young man,' she continued, 'are you there?' and she put out her hand
t