I have a very distinct recollection of my first meeting with this family, for I was accompanied by a friend who, upon catching sight of them at their camp, remarked: “They are a black lot anyway, you should try and persuade them to sit for a photograph.” “Suppose,” said I, “you air your diplomacy and see what you can do, meanwhile I’ll wait here.” Nothing loth, he proceeded to the camp and explained that his friend would like to photograph the family, with the following result:— “No, we ain’t ready,—come next week if you like,—we ain’t goin’ to be took to-day.” Returning to me, my friend reported: “It’s no go, they won’t let you do it, but perhaps you may be able to persuade them.” Armed with my hand camera and the politest Romany I could muster I advanced to the attack. Before many minutes had elapsed, my comrade sauntered up and was surprised to find me preparing to photograph them, the “open sesame” to their hearts having been,—not backsheesh,—but, as the reader will have already surmised, the gentle Romany tongue. My companion, who knew nothing of the language, would not have gained their consent had he argued until nightfall. The woman put one or two artful questions to me, such as would cause a beginner at the language to stumble, but, fortunately, I saw through the stratagem and passed my exam, with honours. I exposed a couple of plates on the group, after which the woman came to me and said: “We had the preachers here just before you came up, but they don’t understand gypsy talk, so we’d like you to give us the Lord’s Prayer in Romany. If you will, I’ll call the children from the other camp; there’s a dozen of us altogether, but only two as can read.” Of course I consented, and after the occupants of the adjacent tent had joined the group, all stood silent and attentive while I repeated the words, which, to the ordinary English ear, sound so strange. At the concluding words—Si covar ajaw—the woman said “Paracrow tuti” (I thank you). [Illustration: “YOU LIKE ME THE BEST.”] Oftentimes since have I thought of this incident, and it has occurred to me that Christian workers among these people are often obliged to confess that after years of wearying labour, little or no evident progress has attended their efforts, but there is here some indication that the good seed implanted may not always die, but may lie dormant awaiting the conditions that will favour its development. Possibly some cynic may accuse these gypsies of hypocrisy,—of simulating a desire he considers foreign to their nature in order to beg successfully afterwards. I am afraid such an accusation would not be unjust to many of the Chorodies, but the great majority of gypsies would consider such action beneath them.