“She must be a gypsy,” they told each other wonderingly. Finally, after many conjectures, someone in the crowd volunteered the information that she was a street singer who had been seen singing through the streets of the town for a day or so. Their curiosity appeased, they turned to their idol once more. Every now and then a convulsive sob shook the young girl’s slender, graceful figure. Like one who hungered for food and drink she watched the speaker, her heart in her eyes, her hands clasped tightly upon her breast. When the eager throng unhitched the horses from the open carriage she had breathlessly watched every movement, and when they, with wild bursts of applause and good-natured laughter, sped away up Princes Street, pulling the carriage behind them, she had swiftly followed, the center of a noisy gang of street urchins and idle brawlers. With a mighty cheer, which brought the watchmen running to the spot pell-mell, they finally stopped at Athol Castle and quickly lined themselves on each side of the striped awning avenue, from the curbing to the door, to watch the great man pass within. The gypsy frantically elbowed her way through the pompous coachmen and good-natured cabbies who had pressed forward to witness the new arrival, and reached the inner edge of the crowd. At that moment Robert stepped from his carriage and walked quickly up the avenue. With a little cry of joy she stretched out her hands to arrest his attention, but he passed inside without having once caught a glimpse of this strange follower.