Thereupon Ryley and Yocky Shuri left Yorkshire and wended their way to London, where they took up their abode in the Gipsyry near Shepherd’s Bush. Shuri went about dukkering and hokking, but not with the spirit of former times, for she was not quite so young as she had been, and her jaw, which was never properly cured, pained her very much. Ryley went about tinkering, but he was unacquainted with London and its neighbourhood, and did not get much to do. An old Gipsy man, who was driving about a little cart filled with skewers, saw him standing in a state of perplexity at a place where four roads met:— OLD GIPSY. “Methinks I see a brother. Who’s your father? Who’s your mother? And what be your name?” RYLEY. “A Bosvil was my father, A Bosvil was my mother, And Ryley is my name.” OLD GIPSY. “I’m glad to see you, brother; I am a kaulo camlo. {218a} What service can I do?” RYLEY. “I’m jawing petulengring, {218b} But do not know the country; Perhaps you’ll show me round.” OLD GIPSY. “I’ll sikker tulle prala! Ino bikkening escouyor, {218c} And av along with me.” The old Gipsy showed Ryley about the country for a week or two, and Ryley formed a kind of connection and did a little business. He, however, displayed little or no energy, was gloomy and dissatisfied, and frequently said that his heart was broken since he had left Yorkshire. Shuri did her best to cheer him, but without effect. Once when she bade him get up and exert himself, he said that if he did it would be of no use, and asked her whether she did not remember the parting prophecy of his other wife, that he would never thrive. At the end of about two years he ceased going his rounds, and did nothing but smoke under the arches of the railroad and loiter about beershops. At length he became very weak and took to his bed; doctors were called in by his faithful Shuri, but there is no remedy for a bruised spirit. A Methodist came and asked him, “What was his hope?” “My hope,” said he, “is that when I am dead I shall be put into the ground, and my wife and children will weep over me,” and such, it may be observed, is the last hope of every genuine Gipsy. His hope was gratified. Shuri and his children, of whom he had three—two stout young fellows and a girl—gave him a magnificent funeral, and screamed and shouted and wept over his grave. They then returned to the “arches,” not to divide his property among them, and to quarrel about the division, according to Christian practice, but to destroy it. They killed his swift pony—still swift though twenty-seven years of age—and buried it deep in the ground without depriving it of its skin. Then they broke the caravan to pieces, making of the fragments a fire, on which