the voice ceased for a time; presently
I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another
moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it
abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at
first thought I had distinguished.

I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about
thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure
of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be
scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the
other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing
in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately
stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in
the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already
alluded to.

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

A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle;
a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to
their cattle.

'All alone here, brother?' said a voice close by me, in sharp but not
disagreeable tones.

I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity
which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to
elapse before I even lifted up my eyes.

A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very
pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive,
and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather
scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck,
however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her
hand she held a bulrush.

'All alone here, brother?' said the girl, as I looked up; 'all alone
here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?'

'Why do you call me brother?' said I; 'I am no brother of yours. Do you
take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!'

'Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman--Roman indeed, you are not
handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be.
If I called you brother, it was because I didn't know what else to call
you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a
brother.'

'Then you don't like me?'

'Neither like you nor dislike you, brot