pretty sister."

"Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did--you don't speak like a Gorgio,
you speak like one of us, you call me sister."

"As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister."

"I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face--there--do
you speak Rommany?"

"Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?"

"What is Rommany? our language to be sure; tell me, brother, only one
thing, you don't speak Rommany?"

"You say it."

"I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?"

"Do you mean thieves' slang--cant? no, I don't speak cant, I don't like
it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don't they?"

"I don't know," said the girl, sitting down on the ground, "I was almost
thinking--well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say, brother, I
think I should like to have the kekaubi."

"I thought you said it was badly mended?"

"Yes, yes, brother, but--"

"I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?"

"Yes, yes, brother, but--"

"What will you give for it?"

"Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence for the
kekaubi."

"Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?"

"Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?"

"Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?"

"I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi,
brother?"

"You like me then?"

"I don't dislike you--I dislike no one; there's only one, and him I don't
dislike, him I hate."

"Who is he?"

"I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you don't
speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?"

"You may have it, but not for sixpence, I'll give it to you."

"Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni [pretty]
kekaubi is now mine. Oh, rare! I thank you kindly, brother."

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in
her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and
then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the
while, and singing--

"The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye."

"Good bye, brother, I must be going."

"Good bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?"

"Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!"

"Ha, ha! Gypsy daughter," said I, starting up and clapping