I know'd her as a child,
and arterwards, when a fine English lady, as poor as a church-mouse,
tried to spile her, a-makin' _her_ a fine lady too, I thought she'd
forget all about me. But not she. I never once called at Mrs.
Davies's house with my crwth, as she taught me to play on, but out
Winnie would come with her bright eyes an' say, "Oh, I'm so glad!"
She meant she was glad to see me, bless the kind heart on her. An'
when I used to see her on the hills, she'd come runnin' up to me, and
she'd put her little hand in mine, she would, an' chatter away, she
would, as we went up an' up. An' one day, when she heard me callin'
one o' the Romany chies sister, she says, "Is that your sister?" an'
when I says, "No; but the Romany chies call each other sister," then
says she, pretending not to know all about our Romany ways, "Sinfi,
I'm very fond on you, may _I_ call you sister?" An' she had sich
ways; an' she's the only Gorgio or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, as I
ever liked, lad or wench.'
The Gypsy's simple words came like a new message of comfort and hope,
but I could not speak.
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