say the missing link—­and only his eyes seemed human.  These were large, dark and brilliant, sparkling like jewels under his elf-locks.  He sat cross-legged on the sward and hugged a fiddle, as though he were nursing a baby.  And, no doubt, he was as attached to his instrument as any mother could be to her child.  It was not difficult for Miss Greeby to guess that this weird, hairy dwarf was the Servian gypsy Kara, of whom Lambert had spoken.  She took advantage of the knowledge to be disagreeable to the girl.

“Is this your husband?” asked Miss Greeby amiably.

Chaldea’s eyes flashed and her cheeks grew crimson.  “Not at all,” she said contemptuously.  “I have no rom.”

“Ah, your are not married?”

“No,” declared Chaldea curtly, and shot a swift glance at Lambert.

“She is waiting for the fairy prince,” said that young gentleman smiling.  “And he is coming to this camp almost immediately.”

“Ishmael Hearne is coming,” replied the gypsy.  “But he is no rom of mine, and never will be.”

“Who is he, then?” asked Lambert carelessly.

“One of the great Romany.”

Miss Greeby remembered that Mother Cockleshell had also spoken of the expected arrival at the camp in these terms.  “A kind of king?” she asked.

Chaldea laughed satirically.  “Yes; a kind of king,” she assented; then turned her back rudely on the speaker and addressed Lambert:  “I can’t come, rye.  Ishmael will want to see me.  I must wait.”

“What a nuisance,” said Lambert, looking annoyed.  “Fancy, Clara.  I have an idea of painting these two as Beauty and the Beast, or perhaps as Esmeralda and Quasimodo.  I want them to come to the cottage and sit now, but they will wait for this confounded Ishmael.”

“We can come to-morrow,” put in Chaldea quickly.  “This afternoon I must dance for Ishmael, and Kara must play.”

“Ishmael will meet with a fine reception,” said Miss Greeby, and then, anxious to have a private conversation with Chaldea so as to disabuse her mind of any idea she may have entertained of marrying Lambert, she added, “I think I shall stay and see him.”

“In that case, I shall return to my cottage,” replied Lambert, sauntering up the pathway, which was strewn with withered leaves.

“When are you coming to The Manor?” called Miss Greeby after him.

“Never!  I am too busy,” he replied over his shoulder and disappeared into the wood.  This departure may seem discourteous, but then Miss Greeby liked to be treated like a comrade and without ceremony.  That is, she liked it so far as other men were concerned, but not as regards Lambert.  She loved him too much to approve of his careless leave-taking, and therefore she frowned darkly, as she turned her attention to Chaldea.

The girl saw that Miss Greeby was annoyed, and guessed the cause of her annoyance.  The idea that this red-haired and gaunt woman should love the handsome Gorgio was so ludicrous in Chaldea’s eyes that she laughed in an ironical fashion.  Miss Greeby turned on her sharply, but before she could speak there was a sound of many voices raised in welcome.  “Sarishan pal!  Sarishan ba!” cried the voices, and Chaldea started.