as coming towards me along this pathway, and it was
evident to me that she was one of those gipsy Rias, of whom the master
has said so much. Looking beyond her, I could see the smoke of a fire
from a small dingle, which showed where her tribe were camping. The
woman herself was of a moderate height, neither tall nor short, with a
face which was much sunburned and freckled. I must confess that she was
not beautiful, but I do not think that anyone, save the master, has found
very beautiful women walking about upon the high-roads of England. Such
as she was I must make the best of her, and well I knew how to address
her, for many times had I admired the mixture of politeness and audacity
which should be used in such a case. Therefore, when the woman had come
to the stile, I held out my hand and helped her over.

"What says the Spanish poet Calderon?" said I. "I doubt not that you
have read the couplet which has been thus Englished:

Oh, maiden, may I humbly pray
That I may help you on your way."

The woman blushed, but said nothing.

"Where," I asked, "are the Romany chals and the Romany chis?"

She turned her head away and was silent.

"Though I am a gorgio," said I, "I know something of the Romany lil," and
to prove it I sang the stanza--

Coliko, coliko saulo wer
Apopli to the farming ker
Will wel and mang him mullo,
Will wel and mang his truppo.

The girl laughed, but said nothing. It appeared to me from her
appearance that she might be one of those who make a living at telling
fortunes or "dukkering," as the master calls it, at racecourses and other
gatherings of the sort.

"Do you dukker?" I asked.

She slapped me on the arm. "Well, you _are_ a pot of ginger!" said she.

I was pleased at the slap, for it put me in mind of the peerless Belle.
"You can use Long Melford," said I, an expression which, with the master,
meant fighting.

"Get along with your sauce!" said she, and struck me again.

"You are a very fine young woman," said I, "and remind me of Grunelda,
the daughter of Hjalmar, who stole the golden bowl from the King of the
Islands."

She seemed annoyed at this. "You keep a civil tongue, young man," said
she.

"I meant no harm, Belle. I was but comparing you to one of whom the saga
says her eyes were like the shine of sun upon icebergs."

This seemed to please her, for she smiled. "My name ain't Belle," she
said at last.

"What is your name?"

"Henrietta."