don't
speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?"

"You may have it, but not for sixpence, I'll give it to you."

"Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now
mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother."

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in
her hand, and seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then
began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while,
and singing--

The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.

"Good-bye, brother, I must be going."

"Good-bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?"

"Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!"

"Ha, ha! gypsy daughter," said I, starting up and clapping my hands, "I
don't understand Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's the answer to
your gillie--

"The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Love Luripen
And dukkeripen,
And hokkeripen,
And every pen
But Lachipen
And tatchipen."

The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some
time after I had concluded the song, standing motionless as a statue,
with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards me, and stared
me full in the face. "Grey, tall, and talks Rommany," said she to
herself. In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen
before--an expression which struck me as being composed of fear,
curiosity and the deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was
succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. "Ha, ha, brother," said she,
"well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet
language, isn't it? especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up?
But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you
to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was
not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person's child so by
screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the
child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she will bring
you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; the poor person's
child will come and see you again; you are not going away to-day, I hope,
or to-morrow, pretty brother, grey-hair'd brother--you are not going away
to-morrow, I hope?"

"Nor the next day," said I, "only to take a stroll to see