or she had an idea that even a
gypsy's money might purchase buns and milk, when she was suddenly
startled, and almost terrified into betraying herself, by encountering
the gentle and fixed stare of Miss Jane Bruce, who had been leaning over
the counter and talking to one of the shop-women when Annie entered.

"Here is a penny for you, little girl," she said. "You can get a nice
hunch of stale bread for a penny in the shop at the corner of the High
street."

Annie's eyes flashed back at the little lady, her lips quivered, and,
clasping the penny, she rushed out of the shop.

"My dear," said Miss Jane, turning to her sister, "did you notice the
extraordinary likeness that little gypsy girl bore to Annie Forest?"

Miss Agnes sighed. "Not particularly, love," she answered; "but I
scarcely looked at her. I wonder if our dear little Annie is any happier
than she was. Ah, I think we have done here. Good-afternoon, Mrs.
Tremlett."

The little old ladies trotted off, giving no more thoughts to the gypsy
child.

Poor Annie almost ran down the street, and never paused till she reached
a shop of much humbler appearance, where she was served with some cold
slices of German sausage, some indifferent bread and butter, and milk by
no means over-good. The coarse fare, and the rough people who surrounded
her, made the poor child feel both sick and frightened. She found she
could only keep up her character by remaining almost silent, for the
moment she opened her lips people turned round and stared at her.

She paid for her meal, however, and presently found herself at the other
side of Sefton, and in a part of the country which was comparatively
strange to her. The gypsies' present encampment was about a mile away
from the town of Oakley, a much larger place than Sefton. Sefton and
Oakley lay about six miles apart. Annie trudged bravely on, her head
aching; for, of course, as a gypsy girl, she could use no parasol to
shade her from the sun. At last the comparative cool of the evening
arrived, and the little girl gave a sigh of relief, and looked forward to
her bed and supper at Oakley. She had made up her mind to sleep there,
and to go to the gypsies' encampment very early in the morning. It was
quite dark by the time she reached Oakley, and she was now so tired, and
her feet so blistered from walking in the gypsy girl's rough shoes, that
she could scarcely proceed another step. The noise and the size of
Oakley, too, bewildered a