"What with his scarcity of manners, and of polished language, and worst of all his want of palate, I found it hard, with so much wind blowing out here all around us, to understand his meaning. This was rude of me to the last degree, for the queerly-voiced man was doing no less than inviting me, with all his heart, to an uncommonly good dinner!" CHAPTER XXI. CINNAMINTA. "Now that," said Cripps, "is what I call the proper way of doing things. Arter all, they hathens knows a dale more than we credit 'em." "Well, Miss Esther," asked Russel, turning to his other listener, "what do you think about it now?" "Sir," she replied, with her round cheeks coloured by the excitement of his tale, and shining in the firelight, "I do not know what the manners may be among the gentry in such things. But if it had been one of us, we never could have supped with him." "You are right," answered Overshute; "so I felt. Starving as I was, I could not break bread with a man like that, until he should have cleared himself. He did not seem to be conscious of any dark mistrust on my part; and that was natural enough, as he did not even know me. But when I said that I must ride home as fast as I could, he asked me first to come and have a look at the poor little child. This I could not well refuse; so I gave my horse to a boy to hold, and followed him into the warm dry place, and into his own corner. As I passed, and the people made way for me, I saw that they were genuine gipsies, not mere English vagabonds. There was no mistaking the clearly-cut features, and the olive complexions, and the dark eyes, lashed both above and below. My gruff companion raised a screen, and showed me into his snuggery. "It was dimly lit by a queer old lamp of red earthenware, and of Roman shape. Couches of heather, and a few low stools, and some vessels were the only furniture; but the place was beautifully clean, and fragrant with dry fern and herbs. In the furthest corner lay little Tom, with a woman bending over him. At the sound of our entry she turned to meet us, and I saw Cinnaminta. Her hair, and eyes, and graceful carriage were as grand as ever, and her forehead as clear and noble; but her face had lost the bright puzzle of youth, and the flush of damask beauty. In a word, that rich mysterious look, which used to thrill so many hearts, was changed into the glance of fear, and the restless gaze of anxiety. "She knew me at once, and asked, with a very poor attempt at gaiety--'Are you come to have your fortune told, sir?'