By shifting around a little we made room for one more and I must confess I was very glad to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Beshaley, for she was one of the nicest, in addition to being one of the most beautiful of Romany women I had met. She appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age; she wore no hat but had her hair—which was intensely black—plaited somewhat elaborately, the plaits hanging over her ears passed around the back of her head in a style facetiously termed “the door-knocker pattern.” Nevertheless, it suited her. In her ears were gold ear-rings of a curious crescentic design, and around the neck she had four rows of large red beads. She was dressed in black, being in mourning for her little boy. After I had been introduced to her by Mrs. Vardomescro as “a friend who jinned what was pen’d in Romany,” all took part in the conversation. Most of what passed would have little general interest, but there is pathos in the following reference made by the new-comer to her recent loss which must not be passed by, and which is an unconscious, albeit welcome, refutation of charges of impassiveness, and the indifference of gypsies to the welfare of their children. An illuminating glimpse may also be obtained of an aspect of Romany life that is rarely, if ever, paraded—before the gorgio. “My little boy who died,” said Mrs. Beshaley, “was a stiff little chap, he’d talk like a man and would stop older children teasing birds or any animals, saying, ‘mustn’t do it, mustn’t do it.’ Dear little fellow, he was too good, so—he had to leave us.” Silently, our sympathies went out to the bereaved mother, who, as though oblivious of our presence, continued—soliloquizing— “Mande’s chavo’s lelled oprey, He’s jalled to the praio tem, Yeck divvus I shall dick leste, Though the poov he’ll dick kek komi.” My child is taken above, He’s gone to the children’s home, One day I will see my love, Though the earth no more he’ll roam. One could see that this trouble still lay heavily upon her, and that she derived a melancholy satisfaction from speaking of the little one who had been so much to her. “Do you know,” said she, awaking from her temporary stupor, “I felt that I couldn’t stay alone in my van while the storm was going over, but I think I must be getting back now.” Bidding me good night she held out her hand, saying— “My husband will be at home to-morrow, he would like to have a talk with you; will you come and have tea with us? it isn’t much we’ve got to offer, but to what there is you’re quite welcome. Good night to you all.” When the retreating footsteps could no longer be heard, Mrs. Vardomescro remarked— “There’s still a few good folk left in the world and she’s one of ’em, and yet this has come to her. But the Almighty knows best.”