The gipsy was however again rocking herself to and fro before the fire, and seemed to have relapsed into her profound reverie, save that this time she did not give audible utterance to her musings. She was however so much absorbed in thought that she did not hear the thanks that were tendered by the wanderers, nor mark their departure. CHAPTER CXXVIII. THE JOURNEY CONTINUED AND CONCLUDED. Perdita and her mother exchanged not a word until they reached the high road once more; but when their faces were again turned towards London, the latter exclaimed in a tone of chuckling triumph, “’Twas a lucky chance which threw us in with that gipsy!” “Yes, mother--as far as obtaining a good meal was concerned,” replied Perdita. “Silly child! it was the old crone’s talk that elicited the remark which I just made. Did you not hear the strange facts she suffered to ooze out in her idiotic musings? Did nothing strike you----” “Yes: her description of a young man of such divine beauty made so strong an impression upon me, that my very veins appeared to run with lightning,” interrupted Perdita. “Ah!” cried her mother, evidently struck by a sudden thought: “you were pleased with her allusion to that handsome young gentleman? Well, Perdita--trust me when I declare emphatically that this same young gentleman shall sue at your feet for those favours which unasked you would this moment bestow upon him!” “Mother, you yourself will soon appear to me to be indulging in idiotic musings!” cried Perdita, half in delight--half in contemptuous incredulity. “You never saw this young man--you know nothing of him----” “Know nothing of him!” repeated her mother, scornfully. “We know enough, Perdita, to compel a whole family to implore our forbearance and our mercy,--to reduce that Mr. Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and their nephew to the necessity of beseeching our silence on their bended knees!” “Do you really put faith in the rhodomontade of that gipsy about the identity of the Mr. Hatfield of whom she spoke with a certain Tom Rain who had been hanged?” demanded Perdita, impatiently. “Yes--because I know it to be true!” ejaculated her mother. “Listen, Perdita:--you were not born at that time--but it was only a few months before your birth when the whole metropolis was astounded by the sudden discovery that Tom Rain, the highwayman, was indeed alive. I was in London at the time----” “In Newgate, mother?” asked her daughter, as coolly as if it were the most common-place question. “Yes--in Newgate, if you must have me be particular in every detail,” answered the old harridan, bitterly. “Where I was born,” remarked Perdita. “One of the first places I shall request you to show me, will be that same Newgate. But go on--I am listening attentively.”