At the far end of the tent, on a bed composed of dead bracken and old clothes, lay a little child, her wan but pretty face telling that the end of the struggle in which she was being worsted was not far off, and it was only too evident that the little sufferer had made her last appearance at the camp fire, where she, like many another, had loved to listen to the old world songs, or to the lively airs coaxed from an ancient fiddle by her brother, who claimed to be a boshomengro. As I sat with the parents in the smoky tent it seemed to me impossible that the child could live through the morrow. But, what of that! the law could have nothing to do with children dying, peacefully or otherwise, for had it not decreed that gypsies should be allowed to encamp only in certain places and only for a very short time before being required to move on. The next morning a keeper appeared on the scene, and although the time allowed by law had barely expired, and the circumstances were explained to him, he peremptorily ordered the striking of the camp. There could be no mistake as to his attitude in the matter: “the law empowered him to make these miserable people move on and he was not going to be cheated out of a job he would enjoy, not he; what would it matter if the brat did die, it was only a gypsy kid.” Although it was the season of sodden earth and stinging rain, the tent was perforce shifted to be pitched elsewhere, and meanwhile, the little inmate passed beyond the power and petty tyranny of callous keepers. And what of the keeper? For the present we must needs be content with the assurance that—“Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” There are, of course, keepers and keepers, many being very good fellows, doing their work conscientiously, keeping the golden rule in sight, and far be it from me to say anything that may be construed as a disparagement of them _in toto_, but I cannot, with justice to my gypsy friends, refrain from presenting a faithful word picture of the original of the incident recorded:— He is a creature who ostensibly thanks God he is not as other men, who, by means of carefully displayed sanctimony, artful planning, and cunning sneak work, manages to retain the good opinion of superiors in office who do not see, and will not believe in his double-dealing, although the gypsies, without exception, know beyond question that his life is a tissue of frauds; and wild game, for which they occasionally risk their liberty rather than starvation, is constantly being illicitly taken by him and disposed of wholesale. It is scarcely possible for the gypsy at his worst to be so despicable a creature.