'You mean, I suppose, that she is dead,' I said.
'Dead?' said Sinfi, the mysterious sibylline look returning
immediately to her face, that had just seemed so frank and simple.
'She ain't got to _die_; she's only got to beg. But I shall ha' to
leave you now. I can't do you no more good. And besides, my daddy's
goin' into the Eastern Counties with the Welsh ponies, and so is
Jasper Bozzell and Rhona. Videy and me are goin' too, in course.'
With deep regret and dismay I felt that I must part from her. How
well I remember that evening. I feel as now I write the delicious
summer breeze of Snowdon blowing on my forehead. The sky, which for
some time had been growing very rich, grew at every moment rarer in
colour, and glassed itself in the llyns which shone with an enjoyment
of the beauty like the magic mirrors of Snowdonian spirits. The
loveliness indeed was so bewitching that one or two of the
Gypsies--a race who are, as I had already noticed, among the few
uncultivated people that show a susceptibility to the beauties of
nature--gave a long sigh of pleasure, and lingered at the llyn of the
triple echo, to see how the soft iridescent opal brightened and
shifted into sapphire and orange, and then into green and gold.
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