I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to. "The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor And dook the gry Of the farming rye." {156} A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to their cattle. "All alone here, brother?" said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones. I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes. A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her hand she held a bulrush. "All alone here, brother?" said the girl, as I looked up; "all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?" "Why do you call me brother?" said I; "I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no Gypsy; not I, indeed!" "Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman--Roman, indeed! you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn't know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother." "Then you don't like me?" "Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?" "What's the use of talking to me in that un-Christian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?" "Lord, brother, what a fool you are! every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle." "Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn't it well mended?" "Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it's only fit to be played at football with." "I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world of trouble." "I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white." "'Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature." "I am young, brother; my hair is black--that's nature: you are young, brother; your hair is white--that's not nature."