But there was one in the party—­and I think only one—­who had her own private share in the play.  That one was the pretty young lady.  Through all the conversation, I observed from time to time her eyes fixed on my face, as if surmising some unaccountable mystery.  I understood it at once.  The bread and butter on the table, partly eaten, and the snow-white napkin indicated to a feminine eye that some one not of the household had been entertained, and that I was the guest.  Perhaps she had seen the old woman’s quick glance at me, but it was evident that she felt a secret.  What she divined I do not know.  Should this work ever fall into her hands, she will learn it all, and with it the fact that Gipsies can talk double about as well as any human beings on the face of the earth, and enjoy fun with as grave a face as any Ojib’wa of them all.

The habits of the Gipsy are pleasantly illustrated by the fact that the collection of “animated books,” which no Rommany gentleman’s library should be without, generally includes a jackdaw.  When the foot of the Gorgio is heard near the tent, a loud “wa-awk” from the wary bird (sounding very much like an alarm) at once proclaims the fact; and on approaching, the stranger finds the entire party in all probability asleep.  Sometimes a dog acts as sentinel, but it comes to the same thing.  It is said you cannot catch a weasel asleep:  I am tempted to add that you can never find a Gipsy awake—­but it means precisely the same thing.

Gipsies are very much attached to their dogs, and in return the dogs are very much attached to their masters—­so much so that there are numerous instances, perfectly authenticated, of the faithful animals having been in the habit of ranging the country alone, at great distances from the tent, and obtaining hares, rabbits, or other game, which they carefully and secretly brought by night to their owners as a slight testimonial of their regard and gratitude.  As the dogs have no moral appreciation of the Game Laws, save as manifested in gamekeepers, no one can blame them.  Gipsies almost invariably prefer, as canine manifesters of devotion, lurchers, a kind of dog which of all others can be most easily taught to steal.  It is not long since a friend of mine, early one morning between dark and dawn, saw a lurcher crossing the Thames with a rabbit in his mouth.  Landing very quietly, the dog went to a Gipsy tan, deposited his burden, and at once returned over the river.

Dogs once trained to such secret hunting become passionately fond of it, and pursue it unweariedly with incredible secrecy and sagacity.  Even cats learn it, and I have heard of one which is “good for three rabbits a week.”  Dogs, however, bring everything home, while puss feeds herself luxuriously before thinking of her owner.  But whether dog or cat, cock or jackdaw, all animals bred among Gipsies do unquestionably become themselves Rommanised, and grow sharp, and shrewd, and mysterious.  A writer