f she had reasoned with herself and were
assured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself that it was not
that of the person she had supposed, she went on again.

But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had been
carrying on near this fire was resumed, and the tones of the voice that
spoke--she could not distinguish words--sounded as familiar to her as
her own.

She turned, and looked back. The person had been seated before, but
was now in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on which
he rested both hands. The attitude was no less familiar to her than
the tone of voice had been. It was her grandfather.

Her first impulse was to call to him; her next to wonder who his
associates could be, and for what purpose they were together. Some
vague apprehension succeeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination
it awakened, she drew nearer to the place; not advancing across the
open field, however, but creeping towards it by the hedge.

In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and standing
among a few young trees, could both see and hear, without much danger
of being observed.

There were no women or children, as she had seen in other gipsy camps
they had passed in their wayfaring, and but one gipsy--a tall athletic
man, who stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little
distance off, looking now at the fire, and now, under his black
eyelashes, at three other men who were there, with a watchful but
half-concealed interest in their conversation. Of these, her
grandfather was one; the others she recognised as the first
card-players at the public-house on the eventful night of the
storm--the man whom they had called Isaac List, and his gruff
companion. One of the low, arched gipsy-tents, common to that people,
was pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared to be, empty.

'Well, are you going?' said the stout man, looking up from the ground
where he was lying at his ease, into her grandfather's face. 'You were
in a mighty hurry a minute ago. Go, if you like. You're your own
master, I hope?'

'Don't vex him,' returned Isaac List, who was squatting like a frog on
the other side of the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he
seemed to be squinting all over; 'he didn't mean any offence.'

'You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport and jest of me
besides,' said the old man, turning from one to the other. 'Ye'll
drive me mad among y