‘Who is he?’

’I scarcely know, I never saw him, but ’tis no affair of yours, you don’t speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?’

‘You may have it, but not for sixpence; I’ll give it to you.’

’Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now mine.  O, rare!  I thank you kindly, brother.’

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing—­

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

Good-bye, brother, I must be going.’

‘Good-bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?’

‘Wicked song, hey, brother! you don’t understand the song!’

‘Ha, ha! gypsy daughter,’ said I, starting up and clapping my hands, ’I don’t understand Rommany, don’t I?  You shall see; here’s the answer to your gillie—­

   ’The Rommany chi
   And the Rommany chal,
   Love Luripen
   And dukkeripen,
   And hokkeripen,
   And every pen
   But Lachipen
   And tatchipen.’

The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some time after I had concluded the song standing motionless as a statue, with the kettle in her hand.  At length she came towards me, and stared me full in the face.  ‘Gray, tall, and talks Rommany,’ said she to herself.  In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen before—­an expression which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity, and the deepest hate.  It was momentary, however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open.  ‘Ha, ha, brother,’ said she, ’well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn’t it? especially as you sing it.  How did you pick it up?  But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt?  Ha, it was funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person’s child so by screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor person.  She will be grateful to you; she will bring you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; the poor person’s child will come and see you again; you are not going away to-day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty brother, gray-haired brother—­you are not going away to-morrow, I hope?’

‘Nor the next day,’ said I, ’only to take a stroll to see if I can sell a kettle; good-bye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister.’

‘Good-bye, tall brother,’ said the girl, as she departed, singing

   ‘The Rommany chi,’ etc.

‘There’s something about that girl that I don’t understand,’ said I to myself; ’something mysterious.  However, it is nothing to me, she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then?’