After a short time the woman arose, and said with a distinct, clear voice, “With thee and for thee I could have endured the mockery of their boasted civilization, and suffered the ceremonies of their tame creed. With thee and for thee I would have foregone my native tribe and my hereditary rights. So persuasive was thy affection that I could have forgotten—or at least would not have boasted—that I was of the glorious race that knows no manacles of body or of mind, but what it chooses to impose. But thou art gone, and with thee all my attraction to the idle, wearisome life of thy race. I have returned to my people, and I may lead them, and power and activity may for a time weaken my agony. I need no longer sacrifice my love for my race—but yet one sacrifice I will make, and thy grave shall be the altar. With thee my heart is buried. To thee do I here swear an eternal fidelity—and year by year will I lead my tribe hither, that I may pour out my anguish upon the sod that rises above thee. And I may hope that such devotion may lead the spirit that made our race for future happiness as for present freedom, to give thee back to me when I enter on my world of changeless love and glorious recompense.” Kneeling again, the Gipsy Queen kissed the grave, and gathered a few blades of grass and one or two flowers, shook away the tears which she had let fall upon them, and placing them in her bosom turned and left the burying-place, and proceeded toward the camp. I left my position by the other route, and passing through the wood I met her. Her face was cleared from every cloud, no trace of a tear was evident; she had prepared herself to meet her party in a way to excite no inquiry. [Illustration: THE GIPSEY QUEEN. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine] The little that I knew of the Gipsy Queen previous to that day, and what was told me by one who had lived in the village very long, I have set down. I never saw her after I passed her in the woods. But she made an impression on my mind that will not be easily removed. And she bore in her heart motives for action which few but herself and me will ever know. * * * * * THE BROTHER’S LAMENT. BY MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY. One moment more, beneath the old elm, Mary, Where last we parted in the flowing dell— One moment more through twilight tints that vary, To gaze upon thy grave, and then, farewell! Ere from this spot, and these loved scenes I sever, Where still thy lovely spirit seems to stray— One look—to fix them on my soul forever— And then away!