When I reached Pont Llyn-yr-Afange (Beaver Pool Bridge) I lingered to
look down the lovely lane on the left, through which I was to pass in
order to reach the rocky dell of Fairy Glen, for it was perfumed, not
with the breath of the flowers now asleep, but with the perfume I
love most of all, the night's floating memory of the flowery breath
of day.
Suddenly I felt some one touching my elbow. I turned round. It was
Rhona Boswell. I was amazed to see her, for I thought that all my
Gypsy friends, Boswells, Lovells, and the rest, were still attending
the horse-fairs in the Midlands and Eastern Counties.
'We've only just got here,' said Rhona; 'wussur luck that we got here
at all. I wants to get back to dear Gypsy Dell and Rington Wood;
that's what I wants to do.'
'Where is the camp?' I asked.
'Same place, twix Bettws and Capel Curig.'
She had been to the bungalow, she told me, with a message from Sinfi.
This message was that she particularly wished to meet me at Mrs.
Davies's cottage--'not at the bungalow'--on the following night.
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