d of her nickname; she loved these Tzigani, whose blood flowed in her
veins; sons of India, perhaps, who had descended to the valley of the
Danube, and who for centuries had lived free in the open air, electing
their chiefs, and having a king appointed by the Palatine--a king, who
commanding beggars, bore, nevertheless, the name of Magnificent;
indestructible tribes, itinerant republics, musicians playing the old
airs of their nation, despite the Turkish sabre and the Austrian police;
agents of patriotism and liberty, guardians of the old Hungarian honor.

These poor people, passing their lives upon the river as the Tzigani
lived in the fields and hedges, seemed to Marsa like the very spectres of
her race. More than the musicians with embroidered vests did the poor
prisoners of the solitary barge recall to her the great proscribed family
of her ancestors.

She called to the children playing upon the sunbeaten deck: "Come here,
and hold up your aprons!"

They obeyed, spreading out their little tattered garments. "Catch these!"
she cried.

They could not believe their eyes. From the steamer she threw down to
them mandarins, grapes, ripe figs, yellow apricots, and great velvety
peaches; a rain of dainties which would have surprised a gourmand: the
poor little things, delighted and afraid at the same time, wondered if
the lady, who gave them such beautiful fruit, was a fairy.

The mother then rose; and, coming toward Marsa to thank her, her sunburnt
skin glowing a deeper red, the poor woman, with tears in her tired eyes,
and a wan smile upon her pale lips, touched, surprised, happy in the
pleasure of her children, murmured, faltering and confused:

"Ah! Madame! Madame! how good you are! You are too good, Madame!"

"We must share what we have!" said Marsa, with a smile. "See how happy
the children are!"

"Very happy, Madame. They are not accustomed to such things. Say 'Thank
you,' to the beautiful lady. Say 'Thank you,' Jean; you are the oldest.
Say like this: 'Thank-you-Ma-dame.'"

"Thank-you-Ma-dame" faltered the boy, raising to Marsa big, timid eyes,
which did not understand why anybody should either wish him ill or do him
a kindness. And other low, sweet little voices repeated, like a refrain:
"Thank-you-Ma-dame."

The two men, in astonishment, came and stood behind the children, and
gazed silently at Marsa.

"And your baby, Madame?" said the Tzigana, looking at the sleeping
infant, that still pressed its ro