In the morning, after putting up a few sandwiches, in case I was unable to discover my friends, I set out for the locality in which I expected to find them. Failing to observe any indication of their presence I sat down and listened intently, having many a time located a camp by the noise of children playing, the sound of wood being chopped or broken for the fire and so on, but now nothing broke the silence to guide me; I concluded, therefore, that they had again gone on, but as I had not found the site of their last camp I had little hope of tracing them and was thinking of returning when, at less than a hundred yards distant, I saw a member of the family I had been seeking,—a young woman upon whom had been bestowed the name of Sinfai Vardomescro—known to the gorgio as Miss Cooper. She informed me that the remainder of the family were away but might return at any minute, that she was just going to fetch a bucket of water and would be back at the camp in a few minutes. She then went on for the water while I set off for the tents, the position of which she had pointed out. Upon reaching the camp I found a seat on an old box and, awaiting events, had nothing to do but think. The gypsies being uppermost in my mind, I experienced a sensation of something akin to envy as I ruminated,—“it was true Science was a meaningless word to them, literature equally a term without signification, the existence of arts, manufactures and commerce was but dimly realized by them, and yet,—did they not enjoy a fuller freedom than I,—did they not escape the cares, worries and anxieties that were inseparable from a state of respectability,—so called,—they had never even heard of Mrs. Grundy,—they”—but here my musing was cut short by the arrival of Sinfai with the water. “Do you know anything about cookin’?” she asked. “How should I?” said I; “it’s hardly been my line up to the present.” “Then,” she retorted, “you’d better jolly well begin to learn at once.” “All right,” said I, laughing. “What’s on the menu?” “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” was the reply; “but we’ve got to get some poovengroes ready first of all,—here’s a churi for you.” Taking the proffered knife, I set to work scraping potatoes. Sinfai, overlooking my performance, remarked approvingly—“Ain’t so bad for a start,—we shall make a Romany out o’ you ’fore long.” While occupied thus as lady’s help I inquired of my instructress, “Where’s your mother today, Sinfai, is she dukkerin?” “Sh—h!” she replied, “don’t talk so loud, some mush may shoon what you pens. We has to be careful nowadays, the police is down on us,—dukkerin ain’t what it used to be; one time we made a good bit by it—but there! it’s no good worrying about it. I say, Rye, ain’t you never had your fortune told?” “Yes, Miss —— told it,” I admitted.