Considering this a great concession, and fearful lest the permission should be withdrawn, I made my working sketch on the spot. I could not then, and I cannot now, understand the difference in effect on the sitter between having a portrait photographed or drawn. That there was to her some subtle distinction which she probably could not, and most certainly would not, explain there can be no manner of doubt, and I can only suggest that photo-chemical action was a mystery to her, and that, in a subconscious or indefinable way, it was regarded as likely to rob her of some part of her psychic entity. [Illustration: MRS. BESHALEY.] The ordeal over, Mr. Beshaley picked up the thread of our earlier conversation and continued— “Well, there’s good and bad folk among us the same as other people, but gypsies have always had a bad name among the gorgios,—you might almost think gypsies were all bad, and all the gorgios good,” he added, laughing. “I know one gorgio,” he went on, “who said, ‘Drive all the gypsies away somewhere, I don’t care where they go, so long as they don’t come near me,’ yet mind you this very man reads the lessons in church. “Such as him would be the first to grumble if strawberries went up a few pence the basket. “What would the fruit-growers, the hop-growers and goodness knows who else, do without us? “Can a farmer keep on all the year the hands who help at the busy season? No! you know as well as I do it wouldn’t pay him. “We have what we call our ‘runs,’ you know,—at one time we do a bit of potato planting and cleaning, afterwards we travel to the strawberry country, then we go on haymaking and field pea-picking. “I’ve told you what we do for a living,” he continued; “might I ask you what you do?” “Well,” I answered, “I am what your folk call a por-engro, and I suppose that is correct.” “And you are writing a lil about us?” he queried. “Yes,” said I; “at least I hope to do so.” “And they tell me you go about alone among us; why, some wouldn’t feel safe.” “It really seems as if I ought to think you are a bad lot,” I observed, laughing. “And so we are, at least that’s what folks who jaw to us for our good tell us,” he replied, at the same time giving a knowing wink. “Do you make much _sugar_ at your game?” he inquired with apparent interest. “Not nearly so much,” I replied, “as I think I should at strawberry-picking.” To this he made no rejoinder but shook his head deprecatingly, seeing that I was quizzing him.