One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined, two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees.  I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of childhood in them.  Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the song which the voice was singing; the words were—­but no, I thought again I was probably mistaken—­and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished.

I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to.

   ’The Rommany chi
   And the Rommany chal
   Shall jaw tasaulor
   To drab the bawlor,
   And dook the gry
   Of the farming rye.’

{picture:’The Rommany chi.’:  page393.jpg}

A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good.  Let them look to their cattle.

‘All alone here, brother?’ said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones.

I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession.  I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes.

A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders.  She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her hand she held a bulrush.

‘All alone here, brother?’ said the girl, as I looked up; ’all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?’

‘Why do you call me brother?’ said I; ’am no brother of yours.  Do you take me for one of your people?  I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!’

’Don’t be afraid, brother, you are no Roman—­Roman indeed, you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be.  If I called you brother, it was because I didn’t know what else to call you.  Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother.’