“Yes--a young man divinely handsome,” continued the gipsy-crone, rocking herself to and fro; “with a countenance that would ensnare any young female heart! And I made enquiries--and I learnt that my Tom Rain was now Mr. Hatfield, and that this young man was his nephew. Oh! I know it was Tom Rain: but how came he thus alive?--by what means was he resuscitated?--who snatched him from the grave? No--no--I am not a drivelling fool--a dreaming idiot, as my people said: I know full well that it was he--I could not be mistaken;--and yet, ’tis impossible to say how he was snatched from death! He is married, too--married to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, whose name he has taken. And they are now all dwelling together at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall. I longed to go thither and tell Tom Rain--no, Mr. Hatfield, I mean--that I had recognised him,--tell him that in me he beheld the Miranda whom he once knew: but my people laughed at me--they told me that I was in my dotage--that I was dreaming,--I, who have intellects as keen as ever--and sight so sharp that I knew my dearly-beloved Tom Rain in spite of his dyed hair and his changed aspect! Then my people forced me away with them;--but they cannot prevent me from thinking of Tom Rain as much and as often as I choose!” The gipsy-crone ceased; and now she seemed to become suddenly aware again that she was not alone. But not reflecting that she had been speaking aloud the whole time, and that her two guests had overheard every syllable she had uttered, she turned towards them, making some remark of a perfectly indifferent character. It was easy to perceive that the poor old creature was half demented, in spite of her self-gratulation on the keenness of her intellects: but Perdita’s mother was sharp and far-seeing enough to know that many important truths were evidently commingled with the gipsy’s rhapsodical reminiscences. “You have journeyed far to-day?” said Miranda--for such indeed was the crone’s name. “Many miles,” replied Perdita’s mother: “but now that we are refreshed through your kindness, we shall push more speedily on to London.” “Ah! you are taking that pretty child of yours to the great city, which we gipsies abhor and never visit unless on urgent occasions,” observed Miranda. “What is your name, young woman?” “Perdita,” was the answer. “Perdita!” repeated the gipsy. “That is a strange name. We have singular names amongst our race: but I never before heard so remarkable a one as that which _you_ bear. What does it mean?” “Have names any meaning at all?” demanded Perdita’s mother, in a tone of impatience. “But, come, daughter--let us thank this good woman, and be off!”