Petulengro was making holes in the earth, at about twenty inches distant from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted no less than the timbers of the tent, and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro, and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about. “Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove the sharp end of the bar into the ground; “here we are and plenty of us—Bute dosta Romany chals.” “I am glad to see you all,” said I, “and particularly you, madam,” said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; “and you also, madam,” taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno. “Good-day to you, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you look, as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners.” “It is not all gold that glitters,” said Mrs. Chikno. “However, good-morrow to you, young rye.” “I do not see Tawno,” said I, looking around; “where is he?” “Where, indeed!” said Mrs. Chikno; “I don’t know; he who countenances him in the roving line can best answer.” “He will be here anon,” said Mr. Petulengro; “he has merely ridden down a by-road to show a farmer a two-year-old colt; she heard me give him directions, but she can’t be satisfied.” “I can’t, indeed,” said Mrs. Chikno. “And why not, sister?” “Because I place no confidence in your words, brother; as I said before, you countenances him.” “Well,” said I, “I know nothing of your private concerns; I am come on an errand. Isopel Berners, down in the dell there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro’s company at breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam,” said I, addressing Mrs. Chikno. “Is that young female your wife, young man?” said Mrs. Chikno. “My wife?” said I. “Yes, young man; your wife, your lawful certificated wife?” “No,” said I; “she is not my wife.” “Then I will not visit with her,” said Mrs. Chikno; “I countenance nothing in the roving line.” “What do you mean by the roving line?” I demanded. “What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean such conduct as is not tatcheno. When ryes and rawnies live together in dingles, without being certificated, I call such behaviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything savouring of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have suffered too much by my own certificated husband’s outbreaks in that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of countenance.” “It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being suspected of doing wrong,” said I.