are mistaken when you think you
see it coming out of the synagogue, unless it be a very vulgar one. Your
Lahova has it not, despite her black eyes, for she is too clever and too
conscious; the devil-beauty never knows how to read, she is unstudied and
no actress. Rachel and the Bernhardt have it not, any more than Saint
Agnes or Miss Blanche Lapin. It is not of good or of evil, or of
culture, which is both; it is all and only of nature, and it does not
know itself.

As the wagonette stopped I greeted the young man at first in English,
then in Romany. When he heard the gypsy tongue he started, his
countenance expressing the utmost surprise and delight. As if he could
hardly believe in such a phenomenon he inquired, "_Romany_?" and as I
nodded assent, he clasped my hand, the tears coming into his eyes. Such
manifestations are not common among gypsies, but I can remember how one,
the wife of black Ben Lee, was thus surprised and affected. How well I
recall the time and scene,--by the Thames, in the late twilight, when
every tree and twig was violet black against the amber sky, where the
birds were chirp-chattering themselves to roost and rest, and the river
rippled and murmured a duet with the evening breeze. I was walking
homeward to Oatlands when I met the tawny Sinaminta, bearing her little
stock of baskets to the tent and van which I had just quitted, and where
Ben and his beautiful little boy were lighting the _al fresco_ fire. "I
have prayed to see this day!" exclaimed the gypsy woman. "I have so
wanted to see the Romany rye of the Coopers. And I laid by a little
_delaben_, a small present, for you when we should meet. It's a
photograph of Ben and me and our child." I might have forgotten the
evening and the amber sky, rippling river and dark-green hedge-rows, but
for this strange meeting and greeting of an unknown friend, but a few
kind words fixed them all for life. That must be indeed a wonderful
landscape which humanity does not make more impressive.

I spoke but a few words to the gypsy with the violin, and we drove on to
a little wayside inn, where we alighted and rested. After a while the
gypsies came along.

"And now, if you will, let us have a real frolic," I said to my friends.
A word was enough. A quart of ale, and the fiddle was set going, and I
sang in Romany, and the rustic landlord and his household wondered what
sort of guests we could be. That they had never before entertained such