“Stay where you are, young gentleman,” she said.  “This is no matter for boys to mix and meddle in.  Sybil, my daughter—­Sybil, I say!  Come and stand near me, for I gets confused at times, and I fears I may not explain myself to the noble gentlewoman with all the respect that I could wish.  She says a great deal that is very true, my daughter, and she has no vulgar insolence in her manners of speaking.  I thinks I shall let her do as she says, if we can get Christian out, which perhaps, if she is cousin to any of the justiciary, she may be able to do.

“The poor tinker-folk returns you the deepest of obligations, my gentle lady.  If she’ll let me see him when I wants to, it will be best, my daughter; for I thinks I am failing, and I shouldn’t like to leave him with George and that drunken slut.

“I thinks I am failing, I say.  Trouble and age and the lone company of your own thoughts, my noble gentlewoman, has a tendency to confuse you, though I was always highly esteemed for the facility of my speech, especially in the telling of fortunes.

“Let the poor gipsy look into your white hand, my pretty lady.  The lines of life are somewhat broken with trouble, but they joins in peace.  There’s a dark young gentleman with a great influence on your happiness, and I sees grandchildren gathered at your knees.

“What did the lady snatch away her hand for, my daughter?  I means no offence.  She shall have Christian.  I have told her so.  Tell him to get ready and go before his father gets back.  He’s a bad ’un is my son George, and I knows now that she was far too good for him.

“Come a little nearer, my dear, that I may touch you.  I sees your face so often, when I knows you can’t be there, that it pleases me to be able to feel you.  I was afraid you bore me ill-will for selling Christian; but I bought him back, my dear, I bought him back.  Take him away with you, my dear, for I am failing, and I shouldn’t like to leave him with George.  Your eyes looks very hollow and your hair is grey.  Not, that I begrudges your making so much of my son, but he treats you ill, he treats you very ill.  Don’t cry, my dear, it comes to an end at last, though I thinks sometimes that all the men in the world put together is not worth the love we wastes upon one.  You hear what I say, Sybil?  And that rascal, Black Basil, is the worst of a bad lot.”

“Hold your jaw, Mother,” said Sybil sharply; and she added, “Be pleased to excuse her, my lady:  she is old and gets confused at times, and she thinks you are Christian’s mother, who is dead.”

The old woman was bursting out again, when Sybil raised her hand, and we all pricked our ears at a sound of noisy quarrelling that came nearer.

“It’s George and his wife,” said Sybil.  “Mother, the gentlefolks had better go.  I’ll go to the inn afterwards, and tell them about Christian.  Take the lady away, sir.  Come, Mother, come!”

I’ve a horror of gipsy men, and even before our neighbours had dispersed I hustled away with Mrs. Hedgehog into the bushes.