"I have no mother, though her picture I wear always upon my breast," she said. "But I will ask old Jarnik, for all he says the others do," and she sped away to an old Gypsy, whose gray hair hung in matted locks upon his shoulders. In a moment she was back again, skimming like a bird across the grass. [Illustration: "SEARCHED THROUGH BANDA BELA WITH A KEEN GLANCE."] "Jarnik says you are to eat, for hunger tells no true tale," she said. "I am glad to eat, but I speak truth," said Banda Bela calmly. He ate from the fire-pot hungrily, dipping the crust she gave him into the stew and scooping up bits of meat and beans. "I am filled," he said at length. "I will speak with Jarnik." Marushka danced across the grass in front of him like a little will-o'-the-wisp, her fair locks floating in the breeze, in the half light her eyes shining like the stars which already twinkled in the Hungarian sky. The Gypsy dogs bayed at the moon, hanging like a crescent over the crest of the hill and silvering all with its calm radiance. Millions of fireflies flitted over the plain, and the scent of the ripened grain was fresh upon the wind. Banda Bela sniffed the rich, earthy smell, the kiss of the wind was kind upon his brow; he was fed and warm. "Life is sweet," he murmured. "In the Gypsy camp is brother kindness. If they will have me, I will stay." Old Jarnik had eyes like needles. They searched through Banda Bela with a keen glance and seemed to pierce his heart. "The Gypsy camp has welcome for the stranger," he said at length. "Will you stay?" "You ask me nothing," said Banda Bela, half surprised, half fearing, yet raising brave eyes to the stern old face. "I have nothing to ask," said old Jarnik. "All I wish to know you have told me." "But I have said nothing," said Banda Bela. "Your face to me lies open as the summer sky. Its lines I scan. They tell me of hunger, of weariness and loneliness, things of the wild. Nothing is there of the city's evil. You may stay with us and know hunger no longer. This one has asked for you," and the old man laid his hand tenderly upon little Marushka's head. "You are hers, your only care to see that no harm comes to these lint locks. The child is dear to me. Will you stay?" "I will stay," said Banda Bela, "and I will care for the child as for my sister. But first I will speak, since I have nothing to keep locked." "Speak, then," said the old man. Though his face was stern, almost fierce, there was a gentle dignity about him and the boy's heart warmed to him.