Tamar reached the village in so short a time, and did her errands so quickly, that having some hours of light before her, she thought she would try another way of return, over a small bridge, which in fact spanned the very water-course which ran through her glen; but being arrived at this bridge, to her surprise she found it broken down.  It was only a single plank, and the wood had rotted and given way.  The brook was too wide and deep in that place to permit her to cross it, and the consequence was, that she must needs go round more than a mile; and, what added to her embarrassment, the evening, which had been fine, was beginning to cloud over, the darkness of the sky hastening the approach of the dusk.  She had now farther to walk than she had when in the village; and, added to the threatenings of the clouds, there were frequent flashings of pale lightning, and remote murmurings of thunder.  But Tamar was not easily alarmed; she had been brought up independently, and already had she recovered the direct path from the village to Shanty’s shed, when suddenly a tall figure of a female arose, as it were, out of the broom and gorse, and stepped in the direction in which she was going, walking by her side for a few paces without speaking a word.

The figure was that of a gipsy, and the garments, as Tamar glanced fearfully at them as they floated in a line with her steps, bespoke a variety of wretchedness scarcely consistent with the proud and elastic march of her who wore them.

Whilst Tamar felt a vague sense of terror stealing over her, the woman spoke, addressing her without ceremony, saying, “So you have been driven to come this way at last; have you been so daintily reared that you cannot wade a burn which has scarcely depth enough to cover the pebbles in its channel.  Look you,” she added, raising her arm, and pointing her finger,—­“see you yon rising ground to the left of those fir trees on the edge of the moor,—­from the summit of that height the sea is visible, and I must, ere many hours, be upon those waters, in such a bark as you delicately-bred dames would not confide in on a summer’s day on Ulswater Mere.”

Whilst the woman spoke, Tamar looked to her and then from her, but not a word did she utter.

“Do you mind me?” said the gipsy; “I have known you long, aye very long.  You were very small when I brought you to this place.  I did well for you then.  Are you grateful?”

Tamar now did turn and look at her, and looked eagerly, and carefully, and intently on her dark and weather-beaten countenance.

“Ah!” said the gipsy, whilst a smile of scorn distorted her lip,—­“so you will demean yourself now to look upon me; and you would like to know what I could tell you?”

“Indeed, indeed, I would!” exclaimed Tamar, all flushed and trembling.  “Oh, in pity, in mercy tell me who I am and who are my parents?—­if they still live; if I have any chance or—­hope of seeing them?”