--that was what we called her, her name being
Cynthia--never got over her girl's death. She blamed herself for it. She
had had those fits of going back to the open-for weeks at a time. The
girl oughtn't to have been taken to camp out. She was never strong, and
it was the wrong place and the wrong time of year--all right in August
and all wrong in October.

"Well, always after her girl's death Aunt Cynthy was as I knew her,
being good to us youngsters as no one else ever was, or could be. Her
tea-table was a sight; and the rest of the meals were banquets. The
first time I ever ate hedgehog was at her place. A little while ago,
just before you came, I thought of her. A hedgehog crossed the path
here, and it brought those days back to me--Charley Long and Aunt Cynthy
and all. Yes, the first time I ever ate hedgehog; was in Aunt Cynthy's
house. Hi-yi, as old Tekewani says, but it was good!"

"What is the Romany word for hedgehog?" Fleda asked in a low tone.

"Hotchewitchi," he replied instantly. "That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is right," she answered, and her eyes had a far-away look, but
there was a kind of trouble at her mouth.

"Do you speak Romany?" she added a little breathlessly.

"No, no. I only picked up words I heard Aunt Cynthy use now and then
when she was in the mood."

"What was the history of Aunt Cynthy?"

"I only know what Charley Long told me. Aunt Cynthy was the daughter
of a Gipsy--they say the only Gipsy in that part of the country at
the time--who used to buy and sell horses, and travel in a big van
as comfortable as a house. The old man suddenly died on the farm of
Charley's uncle. In a month the uncle married the girl. She brought him
thirty thousand dollars."

Fleda knew that this man who had fired her spirit for the first time had
told his childhood story to show her the view he took of her origin; but
she did not like him less for that, though she seemed to feel a chasm
between them still. The new things moving in her were like breezes that
stir the trees, not like the wind turning the windmill which grinds the
corn. She had scarcely yet begun to grind the corn of life.

She did not know where she was going, what she would find, or where the
new trail would lead her. The Past dogged her footsteps, hung round her
like the folds of a garment. Even as she rejected it, it asserted its
power, troubled her, angered her, humiliated her, called to her.

She was glad of this meeting with Ing