shan't have the worse opinion of you.'

I returned to my quarters at evening, tired, but rejoiced at heart; I had
work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which
required mending, in place of those which I left behind--those which I
had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in
the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched
my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal
meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and
more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon
my pallet, and went to sleep.

Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular
notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the
third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at
work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little
inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I
was not long in falling into a slumber; I particularly remember that
slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest
slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I
could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of
a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, 'Danger! danger!
danger!' Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I
heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid
of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just
opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind
of little dog stood beside her.

'Ha!' said I, 'was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?'

'Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be? I
called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name
is not danger, but Stranger; what danger should there be, brother?'

'What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have
got in your hand?'

'Something for you,' said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie
a white napkin; 'a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home
to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor
person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, "Hir mi
devlis, it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I
will bake a cake for the young harko mescro.'"