’Early in the morning the funeral took place.  The body was placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a churchyard but to a deep dell close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock, dressed just as I have told you; and this was done by the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a Roman woman of the old blood, the kosko puro rati, brother.  When it was over, and we had got back to the encampment, I prepared to be going.  Before mounting my gry, however, I bethought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to make away with herself—­a thing so uncommon amongst Romanies; whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a second spirted saliver into the air, and a third said that he neither knew nor cared; she was a good riddance, having more than once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about her.  One, however, I suppose rather ashamed of the way in which they had treated me, said at last that if I wanted to know all about the matter none could tell me better than the child, who was in all her secrets, and was not a little like her; so I looked about for the child, but could find her nowhere.  At last the same man told me that he shouldn’t wonder if I found her at the grave; so I went back to the grave, and sure enough there I found the child Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and taking on; so I spoke kindly to her, and said, “How came all this, Leonora? tell me all about it.”  It was a long time before I could get any answer; at last she opened her mouth and spoke, and these were the words she said, “It was all along of your Pal”; and then she told me all about the matter—­how Mrs. Herne could not abide you, which I knew before; and that she had sworn your destruction, which I did not know before.  And then she told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and how you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake; and she told me many other things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps you don’t wot, namely, that finding you had been removed, she, the child, had tracked you a long way, and found you at last well and hearty, and no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, as she stood concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh Methody.  Well, brother, she told me all this; and, moreover, that when Mrs. Herne heard of it, she said that a dream of hers had come to pass.  I don’t know what it was, but something about herself, a tinker, and a dean; and then she added that it was all up with her, and that she must take a long journey.  Well, brother, that same night Leonora, waking from her sleep in the tent where Mrs. Herne and she were wont to sleep, missed her bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch; and when the child had got so far, she took on violently, and I could not get another word from her; so I left her, and here I am.’