All Gypsies have two names, one for public, the other for private use; and it may be that the baptismal name is the one they value least. At all events the duty of choosing it devolved, in this instance, on me, and the parents gave no indication as to what were their wishes. Unable on the spur of the moment to remember anything really monumental, I called the child Saveta after her godmother, and thus she was registered in the great book when our picturesque little party withdrew to the sacristy. The mother’s name, Anastasi Fiodorana Shodoro, was also placed on record, the last element being probably that of the child’s maternal grandfather. But when I began to dictate W-O-R-S-H-O, Worsho excitedly plucked my sleeve and protested. I had never heard him called by any other name, and was amazed; but he produced documents and passports to prove that he was, officially, Garaz son of Fanaz, the son of Zigano, and as “Garaz Fanaz Zigano” he was written down. The absence of a surname caused no difficulties with our sympathetic Irish priest; but it was quite otherwise when we paid a necessary visit to an ignorant registrar. He declared, “The man must have a surname,” and regarded the want of so necessary a distinction as little less serious than the want of a head or heart. There was a column for surnames in his register, and it would have been a scandal to leave it empty. We filled it. Of all the pleasant recollections associated with this adventure, one lingers in my memory as especially bright and comforting. When we left the church the kindly and venerable Father, who had shepherded us so lovingly through the ceremony, conducted us courteously to the door, held up his hands in benediction and exclaimed in a voice that quivered with sincerity, “You have done a good work this day.” 9. THE REVELATION. ALMOST a year after the arrival of the coppersmiths, old Grantsha, his sons Fardi, Yantshi and Yishwan, and his son-in-law Yono, with their wives and children reappeared in Liverpool, meaning to take ship and follow Kola, who had already gone to Monte Video. But no boat could be found to convey them, and after waiting a week in an emigrants’ lodging-house in Duke Street, they were obliged to go by rail to Dover and embark there. It was a gloomy, undecorated dwelling in which they stayed, a warren of scantily-furnished rooms, in each of which one family camped like bears in an overcrowded menagerie. Since there was nothing else to do, their idle misery found expression in begging. At home and abroad, in season and out of season, whenever there was anybody to beg from, they begged immoderately—all except Fardi. He and his family were exceptional, cultivating little courtly airs and holding themselves somewhat aloof from the rest of the tribe; and in the matter of respectability the chief himself could hardly hold a candle to his brother, though they had this in common, that neither ever begged.