Amongst those who pressed most eagerly forward to harken to the gipsy was Mrs. Webber. She was dressed in white, and a very pretty straw hat was perched on her high-dressed hair. Her pale face wore an expression of enthusiastic credulity, and she kept her eyes fastened upon the gipsy as though she devoured every word the creature uttered. Alice and I stood on the other side of the crowd, and Mrs. Webber did not observe us. I speak of ourselves as a crowd, and indeed we looked so on the white deck of the ship and under the shadow of the awning which produced an atmospheric effect of compression, diminishing the width and even the length of the ship to the eye. I had no doubt that Mrs. Webber would ask to have her fortune told, and I loitered, Alice leaning on my arm, with some curiosity to hear what the gipsy would say; but when the woman had dropped the hand of Miss Glanville, and while she swept the adjacent faces with brilliant eyes as though she should say, Whose turn next? the tall, slim young gentleman known to me by the name of Mr. Stinton pressed forward close to the woman and exclaimed: ‘I say, mother, I know something about you gipsy folks. My father was a magistrate,’ and dropping his head on one side he smiled at her. ‘What you know about us is that we are a very respectable, honest people,’ said she, grinning at him, with her large, strong, glaring white teeth. ‘Do you still steal pigs?’ said he. ‘Oh, no, no,’ she cried with a vehement shake of the head and an equally vehement motion of her hand before her face. ‘You no longer poison pigs and beg the carcases of the poor people to whom they belonged and then clean them of the poison and roast them and eat them, eh?’ said Mr. Stinton. A general laugh arose on either hand from the emigrants who swarmed upon the two ladders. ‘Oh, no, no,’ cried the woman, ‘we are respectable, hard-working people, and get our money honestly.’ ‘You no longer steal horses, then?’ ‘Oh, no, no.’ ‘Nor children?’ ‘Why do you say such things?’ shrieked the woman, and her eyes blazed as she looked at Mr. Stinton, and the flush that entered her cheeks deepened her swarthy, ugly complexion by several shades. ‘By my God, if you ask me any more such questions I will do you some mischief.’ ‘None of that!’ cried Mr. Harris. ‘My father is a magistrate,’ said Mr. Stinton, who had stepped backwards and now spoke over the shoulders of Mr. Webber. ‘It is a pity to insult the poor creature,’ said one of the ladies. The gipsy looked for an instant at Mr. Stinton, her eyes then went to Mrs. Webber, and her manner changed; it grew suppliant and cringing; the fierce expression of her lips softened into a fawning smile.