house may be darning his stockings?’ Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched.  It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance.  I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne.  ‘Ho, ho, sir!’ said she, ‘here you are.  Come here, Leonora,’ said she to the gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; ’here is the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner.  Sit down on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same.  There—­you have seen me before, sir, have you not?’

‘The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you.’

‘I have known him of old, Leonora,’ said Mrs. Herne; ’and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer.’

‘It’s a way he has, bebee, I suppose?’

‘Yes, child, it’s a way he has.’

‘Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face.’

’I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet—­there—­and shake out my hair—­there—­you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face—­’

‘No answer, bebee.’

‘Though the one was not quite so gray, nor the other so wrinkled.’

‘How came they so, bebee?’

‘All along of this gorgio, child.’

‘The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee?’

’Yes, child, the gentleman in the house.  God grant that I may preserve my temper.  Do you know, sir, my name?  My name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither gray-haired nor wrinkled.  It is not the nature of the Hernes to be gray or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old.’

‘How old are you, bebee?’

’Sixty-five years, child—­an inconsiderable number.  My mother was a hundred and one—­a considerable age—­when she died, yet she had not one gray hair, and not more than six wrinkles—­an inconsiderable number.’

‘She had no griefs, bebee?’

‘Plenty, child, but not like mine.’

‘Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?’

’No, child; my head wanders when I think of them.  After the death of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so.  When I say right Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company.  Well, things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and, without much preamble, says to me and mine, “This is my pal, ain’t he a beauty? fall down and worship him.”  “Hold,” said I, “I for one will never consent to such foolishness."’