Dora Parse thought of the box now, and wished that she might have the peacock’s feather for a minute, so that her uneasy sense of impending bad luck would leave her.  Then she stopped beside a cross-barred gate where an old man was evidently waiting for her.

“Lane was gettin’ troubled about yuh,” he said, as he turned the horses and peered curiously up at her.  He knew who she was, not only because John Lane had said who it was who was late, but because Dora Parse’s appearance was well known to the whole countryside.  She was the only member of the tribe who kept to the full Romany dress.  There were big gold loops in her small ears, and on her arms, many gold bracelets, whose lightness testified to their freedom from alloy.  Her skirt was of red, heavily embroidered in blue, and her waist, with short sleeves, was of sheer white cloth, with an embroidered bolero.  Her hair she wore in the ancient fashion, in two braids on either side of her face.  She could well afford to, the chis muttered among themselves.  Any girl with hair like that—­

There was a long lane leading to the barns and to the meadow back of them, and there, said Jan, the tribe was to camp.  As the princess drove along the short distance, she swiftly snatched off her little bolero, put it on wrong side out, and then snatched it off and righted it.  That much, at least, she could do to avert ill luck.  And her heart bounded as she drove in among the other wagons, for her husband came running to meet her and held out his arms.

She dropped into them and laid each finger tip, delicately, in succession, upon his eyes and his ears and his mouth, the seal of a betrothal and the sign whereby a Romany chal may know that a chi intends to accept him when he speaks for her before the tribe; a sign that lovers repeat as a sacred and intimate caress.  She leaned, hard, into his arms, and he held her, pressing the tender, confidential kiss that is given to children behind her little ear.

Dora Parse suddenly ran both hands through his thick hair and gave it a little pull.  She always did that when her spirits rose.  Then she turned and looked at the scene, and at once she knew that there was to be some special occasion.  Aunty Alice Lee was seated by a cooking fire, on which stood the enormous iron pot in which the “big meals” were prepared, when the tribe was to eat together and not in separate groups, as it usually did.  There were some boards laid on wooden horses, and Pyramus Lee, aunty’s grandson, was bringing blocks of wood from the woodshed for seats.  Dora Parse clapped her hands with delight and looked at her man.

“Tetcho!” she exclaimed, approvingly, using the word that spells all degrees of satisfaction.  “And what is it for, stickless one?  Is it a talk over silver?”

“Yes, it is some business,” George Lane replied, “but first there will be a gillie shoon.”