The words, uttered in a hoarse, croaking voice close to Stella’s ear, as she sped through the trees of the park in the darkness, made her start and utter a little cry of fright. The terms, too, were so strangely appropriate to her own circumstances that it seemed as though they were spoken in response to her thoughts. Turning in considerable alarm, she perceived a few steps behind her the small, bent form of a very old woman, in appearance almost a centenarian, wrapped in a hooded cloak of some dark woollen material. From under the scattered white locks straying over her wrinkled brow an extraordinarily brilliant pair of eyes gleamed out, belying her apparent decrepitude, and carrying out still further the weird and witch-like effect of her whole appearance as she stood before Stella, leaning heavily on a stick, with skinny, trembling fingers. Stella Cranstoun possessed the instinctive reverence for age which exists in all generous-minded young people. The uncanny appearance of the old woman considerably startled her in her overwrought state of mind; but she easily forgot her temporary alarm in an unselfish fear as to what might befall the aged creature before her should Sir Philip chance to hear of her presence within his grounds. “Are you a gypsy?” Stella asked, stopping short, and looking fixedly at the old woman. “Ay, my deary; I’m a gypsy, sure enough. Old Sarah is a true Romany. But the Romanys are your friends, my pretty. You’ve got no call to be afraid of them.” “Do you know who I am, then?” the young girl asked, fascinated in spite of herself by those strangely bright eyes. Sarah Carewe burst into a hoarse, mirthless laugh, which reminded Stella more of a raven’s croak than of the ordinary way of expressing amusement. “Do I know my Clare’s girl when I see her?” she asked. “My Clare, that died in my arms when you was a little, helpless baby. You’ve got her eyes, my pretty, and her face; for all you’re not so round and _dimber_ as she was in her prime.” “You are making some mistake,” Stella said. “I am the daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun, of the Chase. If you want money I will give you what I have about me with pleasure; but you must get out of the park as soon as possible, for my father is dreadfully bitter against tramps and gypsies, especially gypsies.” An evil scowl contracted the hag’s white eyebrows.