A Little Gipsy Lass

A STORY OF MOORLAND AND WILD
By
GORDON-STABLES, M.D., C.M., R.N.
Author of
'Peggy M'Queen,' 'The Rover Caravan,' &c.
WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS
by
William Rainey
LONDON: 47 Paternoster Row
W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
EDINBURGH: 47 Paternoster Row
1907

Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

BOOKS FOR GIRLS
By May Baldwin.

W. & R. Chambers, Limited, London and Edinburgh.

A Little Gipsy Lass.

CHAPTER I.
LOTTY LEE.

THE young man stood on the deserted platform of the small, north-country station, just where the train had left him, on that bright August evening. Yonder she was speeding east-wards against the breeze.

Against the breeze, and along towards the cliffs that o'erhung the wild, wide sea, the end of the last carriage gilded with the rays of the setting sun, the smoke streaming backwards and losing itself over the brown-green woods that stretched away and away till lost in a haze at the foot of the hills.

He hailed a solitary porter.

'This isn't a very inviting station of yours, Tom, is it?'

'An awful good guess at my name, sir,' said the man, saluting.

'Your name is Tom, then?'

'No, sir—George,' he smiled. 'But any name does; and as for the station, weel, it's good enough in its way. We only tak' up or pit doon by signal. But you'll be English, sir?'

'That's it, George; that's just it. I'm only English. But, so far, I am in luck; because I understand your talk, and I thought everybody here ran about raw, with kilts on and speaking in Scotch.'

'So they do, sir, mostly; but I've been far south myself. No, sir, no left-luggage room here; but if you're going to the inn I'll carry your portmanteau, though ye'll no' find much accommodation there for a gentleman like yourself. Besides, it's the nicht of the fair, and they'll be dancin' and singin' in the road till midnicht.'

'But,' said the stranger, 'I'm bound for Loggiemouth, if I can only find the way. I'm going to a gipsy encampment there—Nat Lee's or Biffins'. You know Nat Lee?'

'Well, and curly-headed Lotty too. But, man, you'll have ill findin' your road over the moor the nicht. It's three good Scotch miles, and your portmanteau's no' a small weight—a hundred and twenty pounds if an ounce.'

This young man, with the sunny hair, square shoulders, and bravely chiselled English face, seized the bag with his left hand and held it high above his head, much to the admiration of the honest porter.

'You're a fine lad, sir,' said the latter. 'An English athlete, no doubt. Weel, we all love strength hereabouts, and Loggiemouth itself can boast of bonny men.'

'Here!' cried the stranger abruptly, as he looked to the west and the sun that was sinking like a great blood-orange in the purple mist of the woodlands, 'take that portmanteau, George, in your own charge. I suppose you live somewhere?'

'I'll lock it up in the lamp-room, sir. It'll be safe enough there.'

'Well, thanks; and to-morrow I'll either stride over for it myself or send some one. Now, you'll direct me to the camp, won't you?'

'Ay, ay, sir, and you've a good stick and a stout heart, so nothing can come o'er ye. But what way did nobody meet you, sir?'

'Nat Lee said he would send some one, but—hallo! who is this?'

She ran along the platform hurriedly but smiling—a little nervously perhaps, blinking somewhat moreover, for the sun's last beams lit up her face and eke her yellow hair. Her colour seemed to rise as she advanced. Blushing? No. Lotty Lee was barely twelve.

'Oh, please, sir, are you Mr Blake?'

'I am. And you?'

'Me? I'm only Lotty Lee, and that's nobody. But father sent me to meet you, and lead you home to our pitch across the Whinny Moor. You couldn't find the way by yourself, never, never, never!'

'Good-night, sir.—Good-night, Miss Lotty,' cried the porter, throwing the portmanteau on his shoulder and marching off with it.

'Well,' said the young fellow, 'I have a sweet little guide anyhow; but are you sure that even you can find the way yourself, Lotty?'

'Oh yes, Mr Blake, please.'

Hers was a light, musical, almost bird-like laugh.

She tossed back her head a little, and all those impossible little crumply curls caught by the evening breeze went dancing round her brow and ears.

'If you have any—any big thing, I will carry it for you, sir.'

It was his turn to laugh now. 'Why, Lotty,' he said, 'I shouldn't wonder if I had to carry you before we get to camp.'

'Come,' she answered, with an uneasy glance at the west. She took his hand as if he'd been a blind man. 'Father said I was to lead you, sir.'

'But I don't think he meant it in so literal a sense, Lotty. I think I can see for quite half an hour yet.'

He kept that warm hand in his, nevertheless. So on they went, chatting together gaily enough now, for she did not seem a bit afraid of her tall companion.

'I would have been here much sooner, you know, but Wallace followed me. Wallace is a very naughty boy sometimes, and father doesn't like him to be out of camp at nights.'

'And where is the young gentleman now?'

'Oh, I had to take him back, and that is what kept me.'

It was getting early dark to-night, and one great star was already out in the east. Whinny Moor was beginning to look eerisome enough. The patches of furze that everywhere hugged the ground were like moving shapes of strange and uncanny antediluvian monsters, and here and there stood up the dark spectre of a stunted hawthorn-tree waving black arms in the wind as if to forbid their approach.

Sometimes they had to creep quite sideways through the bushes of sturdy whins and bramble; sometimes the moor was more open, and here and there were little lakes or sedgy ponds of silver sheen, where black things swam or glided in and out among the rustling rushes. Flitter-mice darted over their heads or even between them, and from the forest now and then came the doleful cry of the great barn-owl.

'On the whole,' said young Blake, 'I'm glad you came, Lotty. I doubt if ever I could have made my way across this moor.'

'Nor through the forest yonder. Ah! the forest is much worse, Mr Blake.'

'Dark and dismal, I suppose?'

'It is dark; I don't know about dismal, Mr Blake. But I know all the road through this moor; because when things come to the station father often sends me for them.'

'At night?'

'Oh yes, often at night. Only, there is a little winding path through among the pine-trees, and one day Chops went in daylight and marked all the trees in white paint for me. But father thrashed him for it, because white paint is one of the show properties, and we mustn't waste the properties. But I cried for Chops.'

'And who is Chops, Lotty?'

'Oh, Chops is the fat boy; he is a property himself, but nobody could waste him.'

'No?'

'No; and Chops is fifteen, you know, and so good and so fond of me; but he is so fat that he can't look at you, only just blinks over his cheeks. But Chops is so kind to me—quite loves me. And so does Wallace. But I love Wallace better than anybody else, and everybody else loves Wallace.'

'And Wallace and everybody love Lotty, I'm sure of that.'

'Oh, Wallace loves me, and would die for me any day. But, of course, everybody doesn't. I'm only just a property, you know.'

'But your father and mother?'

Frank Antony Blake felt the small, soft hand tremble in his.

'There is no mother, sir. Never was a mother in my time. But father'——

The child was crying—yes, and sobbing—as if her heart would break.

Then, though Frank Antony was tall and strong for his eighteen years, he didn't really know what to do with a girl who burst into tears at night on a lonesome moor. He could remember no precedent. It mightn't be correct, he thought, to take her in his arms and kiss her and try to soothe her, so he merely said, 'Never mind, Lotty; never mind. It is sure to come all right somehow.'

For the life of him, however, he couldn't have told you what was wrong or what there was to come right. In the fast-waning light Lotty looked up at him ever so sadly, and he could not help noticing now what he had not noticed before—Lotty was really a beautiful child.

'You talked to me so kindly like,' she said, 'and hardly anybody does that, and—and that was it. Don't talk to me kindly again, sir, ever, ever, ever!'

He patted her hand.

'That's worse,' said Lotty, feeling she wanted to cry again, and she drew the hand away. 'You'll have me crying again. Speak gruff to me, as others do, and call me "Lot!"'

But at that moment Antony had a happy inspiration. He remembered that in his big coat-pocket he had a large box of assorted chocolates, and here close by on a bare part of the moor was a big white stone.

'Come,' he cried, 'there is no great hurry, and I'm going to have some chocolates. Won't you, Lot?'

Down he sat on the big white stone, and Lotty stood timidly in front of him. But Antony would not have this arrangement, so he lifted her bodily up—'how strong he is!' she thought—and seated her beside him, then threw a big handful of the delicious sweets into her lap.

She was smiling now. She was happy again. It was not the chocolates that worked the change; but the chance companionship of this youth of gentle blood, so high above her, seemed to have wakened a chord long, long untouched in that little harp of a heart of hers.

Was it but a dream, or had there been once a time, long—ever so long—ago, when voices quite as pleasant and musical and refined as Antony's were not strange to her? And had she not, when young—she was twelve now, and that is so old—lived in a real house, with bright cushions on real sofas, and lamps and mirrors and flowers everywhere? No, that must have been a dream; but it was one she often dreamt while she swung by night in her cot, as the winds rocked the caravan and lulled her to sleep.

The autumn evening was very beautiful now; bright stars were shining so closely overhead that it seemed as if one could almost touch them with a fishing-rod. Besides, a big, nearly round moon had managed to scramble up behind the bank of blue clouds in the east—a big, fat face of a moon that appeared to be bursting with half-concealed merriment as it blinked across the moor.

It wasn't the lollies that had enabled Lotty to regain her good spirits; but she felt quietly happy sitting here on the stone beside this newly found friend. Oh yes, he was going to be a friend; she felt certain of that already. Young though Lottie was, she had a woman's instinct. Perhaps she possessed a woman's pride as well, though only in embryo; for she felt half-ashamed of her awkward, bare brown legs that ended not in shoes but rough sandals, and of the pretty necklace of crimson hips and haws that she had strung for herself only yesterday.

They had been sitting in silence for some time, both thinking, I suppose, when Lotty's keen ear caught the weary call of some benighted plover.

'They'll soon be away now!' she sighed, more to herself than to her companion.

'What will soon be away, Lotty?'

'Oh, the plovers and the swallows and the greenfinches, and nearly all my pretty pets of springtime, and we'll have only just the rooks and the gulls left.'

Antony laid his hand on hers.

'Lotty loves the wild birds, then?'

'I—I suppose so. Doesn't everybody? I wish I could go south with the birds in autumn, to lands where the flowers are always blooming.'

'Who knows what is before you, child!'

The child interested him.

'Look, Lotty, look!' cried Antony next moment; 'what on earth can that be?'

He was genuinely startled. About two hundred yards from the place where they sat a great ball of crimson-yellow fire, as big as a gipsy pot, rose slowly, waveringly, into the air. It was followed by five others, each one smaller than the one above it. They switched themselves towards the forest, and one by one they went out.

'It is only will-o'-the-wisps,' said Lotty, 'and they always bring good luck. Aren't you glad?'

'Very,' said Antony.

Then, hand in hand, as if very old acquaintances indeed, they resumed their journey. And, as they got nearer and nearer to the forest, the tall pine-trees, with brown, pillar-like limbs, grew higher and higher, and finally swallowed them up.

CHAPTER II.
HOW ANTONY HAPPENED TO BE THERE.

ANTONY BLAKE—or Frank Antony Blake, to give him the benefit of his full tally—was the only son and heir-apparent of Squire Blake of Manby Hall, a fine old mansion away down in Devonshire; thousands of acres of land—no one seemed to know how many—rolling fields of meadow-lands divided by hedgerows and waving grain, woods and wolds, lakes and streams, and an upland of heath and fern that lost itself far away on the nor'-western horizon.

The mansion itself, situated on a green eminence in the midst of the well-treed old park, was one of the stately homes of England; and though antique enough to be almost grim—as if holding in its dark interior the secrets of a gloomy or mayhap tragic past—it was cheerful enough in summer or winter; and from its big lodge-gates, all along its gravelled avenues, the wheel-marks bore evidence that Manby Hall was by no means deserted nor the squire very much of a recluse.

The gardens of this mansion were large enough to lose one's self in, silent save for the song of birds, with broad green walks, with bush and tree and flower, and fountains playing in the centre of ponds only and solely for the sake of the waterfowl or the gold and silver fish that hid themselves from the sunshine beneath the green, shimmering leaves of lordly floating lilies, orange and white.

A rural paradise was Manby Hall. Acres of glass too, a regiment of semi-silent gardeners, and a mileage of strong old walls around that were gay in springtime and summer with creeping, climbing, trailing flowers of every shape and shade.

If there was a single grim room in all this abode it was the library, where from tawny, leather-bound shelves the mighty tomes of authors long dead and gone frowned down on one, as one entered through the heavily draped doorways.

Whisper it! But Antony was really irreverent enough to say one day to a friend of his that this solemn and classic library was a jolly good billiard-room spoiled.

Anyhow, it was in this room that Frank Antony found himself one morning. He had been summoned hither by his father.

The squire was verging on fifty, healthy and hard in face, handsome rather, with hair fast ripening into gray.

'Ha, Frank, my boy! come forward. You may be seated.'

'Rather stand, dad. Guess it's nothing too pleasant.'

'Well, I sent for you, Frank'——

'And I'm here, dad.'

'Let me see now. You're eighteen, aren't you?'

'I suppose so, sir; but—you ought to know,' replied Antony archly.

'I? What on earth have I to do with it? At least, I am too busy a man to remember the ages of all my children. Your mother, now, might; but then your mother is a woman—a woman, Frank.'

'I could have guessed as much, dad. But as for "all" your children, father, why, there are only Aggie and I. That comprises the whole lot of us; not very tiresome to count, I reckon.'

'There! don't be quizzical, boy. I sent for you—er—I sent for you to—to'——

'Yes, father, sent for me to—to'——

'I wish you to choose a career, you young dog. Don't stand there and to—to at me, else I'll—I don't know what I mightn't do. But stand down, sir—I mean, sit down—and you won't look so precious like a poacher.'

Antony obeyed.

'You see, lad, I have your interest at my heart. It is all very well being an athlete. You're a handsome young fellow too—just like me when I was a young fellow. Might marry into any county family. But cricket and football and rowing stroke aren't everything, Frank, and it is high time you were looking ahead—choosing your career. Well, well,' continued the squire impatiently, 'have you nothing to say?'

'Oh yes,' cried Frank Antony, beaming now. 'I put that filly at a fence to-day, father, and'——

'Hang the filly! I want you to choose a career; do you hear?'

'Yes, father.'

'Well, I'm here to help you all I can. Let us see! You're well educated; too much so for the Church, perhaps.'

'Not good enough anyhow, dad, to wear a hassock. Whew! I mean a cassock.'

'Well, there are the civil and the diplomatic services.'

Antony shook an impatient head.

'And you're too old for the army. But—now listen, Frank. I expect your eyes to gleam, lad, when I mention the term: a parliamentary career! Think of it, lad; think of it. Just think of the long vista of splendid possibilities that these two words can conjure up before a young man with the blood of a Blake in his veins.'

Frank Antony did not seem at all impressed; not even a little bit.

'I'm afraid, father, I'm a lazy rascal,' he said, almost pitying the enthusiasm which he himself could not appreciate. 'I'm not so clever as my dear old dad, and I fear the House would bore me. Never could make a speech either, so'——

'Speech!' roared the squire, 'why, you'll never be asked to. They wouldn't let you. They'd cough you down, groan you down, laugh you down. Besides, clever men don't make speeches nowadays—only the fools.'

Young Antony suppressed a yawn.

'Very good, my boy, very good!'—his dad was shaking hands with him—'and I honour you for your choice. And I'm of precisely the same opinion. There's nothing like a seat in the House.'

'Rather have one on the hillside though, daddy, all among the grouse.'

His father didn't hear him.

'And now, Frank, I'm not an ordinary father, you know; and, before entering the House, I don't see in the least why you shouldn't have your fling for a year or two. I maintain that all young fellows should have their fling. A hundred years or so agone I had my fling. Look at me now. Am I any the worse? Well, I've just put a bit in the bank for you, lad, so go and do your best.'

Frank was laughing merrily.

He put his hand in what he called his rabbit-pocket and handed out a book: The Gamekeeper at Home. 'That is my lay, dad,' he said. 'I only want to potter around and fish and shoot, or hunt in season. Don't like London. Hate Paris. Not at home in so-called society. I'll just have my fling in my own humdrum fashion, daddy, thank you all the same. I'll have my fling, depend upon it.'

The young man was smiling to himself at some recollection.

'What is it, Frank?'

'Only this, dad. The black keeper—Tim, you know—weighs two hundred and twenty pounds. The other day he was stronger than I. I threw him last eve—Cumberland. This morning I lifted him with my left and landed him on the west side of the picket-fence. How's that for a fling, daddy?'

'Go on, you young rogue. Listen, I hear Aggie calling you!'

'Oh, but you listen to me, father. I really don't see enough life down here.'

'Well, there's London, my lad. London for life!'

'No, no! For the next few months, with your permission, I'm going to live a life as free as a swallow's. I'm going on the road in my own house-upon-wheels. I'll see and mingle with all sorts of society, high and low, rich and poor. I'll be happy in spirit, healthy in body, and by the time I come back my mind will be quite a storehouse of knowledge that will better fit me for Parliament than all the lore in this great library, father.'

'You're going to take up with gipsies, Frank?'

'Be a sort of gip myself, daddy.'

'Bother me, boy, if there isn't something really good in the idea. But how are you going to set about it? Build a caravan for yourself?'

'Not build one, father. Nat Biffins Lee—a scion of the old, old gipsy Lee, you know—owns a real white elephant'——

'Bless my soul! is the lad going mad? You don't mean seriously to travel the country with a real white elephant, eh?'

'You don't understand, daddy. This Nat Lee has a splendid house-upon-wheels which belonged to the Duchess of X—— She went abroad, and Lee has bought it. But as it needs three powerful horses to rattle it along, it is quite a white elephant to Nat. So I'm going up north to Loggiemouth in Nairnshire, and if I like it I'll buy it. Is it all right?'

'Right as rain in March, boy. Go when you like.'

'Coming, Aggie; coming.'

. . . . . . .

Deprived of its detail, this is pretty much the story that Antony Blake told Lotty Lee that autumn night as they sat together eating chocolates on the big white stone on Whinny Moor.

And that is how Antony happened to be there.

CHAPTER III.
IN GIPSY CAMP AND CARAVAN.

BRIGHTER and brighter shone the moon, yet it was dark in that great wood, into which the light could hardly penetrate. Solemn as a cathedral, too, with far above them the black roof of interlacing pine-trees.

Only here and there the chequered moonlight streamed downwards on the soft carpet of needled foliage that lay beneath.

Pathway it could scarce have been called, save for the blazed trees, for the boy Chops had done his work well, albeit he had wasted the properties. There were places where the gloom was so complete that Frank Antony had to feel for Lotty to make sure she was still by his side. And neither seemed inclined to break the stillness just then.

The owls and other birds of prey were in evidence here, and once when a pigeon was scared, and flew flapping upwards from its flat nest of heather-stalks or its perch among the pines, some night-bird struck it speedily down. No, not an owl; for owls do feed on mice and rats.

Then they came to a glade, and once more the moon shone merrily above them, and the black shadows of Antony and his companion pointed northwards and west.

'More than half-way home,' said Lotty.

'A strangely impressive scene,' said Antony.

'Are you very heavy, sir?'

'For my inches I scale a good deal, Lotty.'

'Well, you must walk round by the white stones yonder. All the centre is a moving bog, you know. It bears my weight and Wallace's easily, and we like to swing up and down on the turf. You'll see me swing in a minute. But you might go through, then you would sink down and down and down among the black slime, and not be seen again, never, never, never!'

'A very pretty prospect indeed, Lotty; but I think I'll go round by the stones. I have rather an interest in myself.'

Lotty had her swing on the green, moving turf that covered the awful abyss, and appeared to enjoy it very much; but presently they met again on the other side. Antony paused for a moment to gaze into the star-depths.

'How beautiful!' he murmured.

'Are you very hungry, sir?' asked matter-of-fact Lotty.

'I could do with a bit of supper, I believe.'

'Because,' said Lotty, 'the light you see up yonder comes from Crona's cottage. Crona is a witch; but she loves me, and often, when I am hungry, she gives me milk to drink and sometimes an egg.'

'Well, by all means let us see this witch-friend of yours. Is she very terrible, Lotty?'

'She has such kindly eyes!' Lotty answered. Then she guided Antony up to the long, low hut on the cliff.

The girl simply lifted the latch and entered without ceremony. A peat-fire was burning on a rude stone hearth, and near it sat Crona, warming her skinny hands. A tame fox by her side yapped and howled, and a huge cat put up her back. Crona closed the big Bible she had been reading, and laid it reverently on the window-sill, with her spectacles above it.

'Oh, come your ways in, my bonny Lotty. But wha have you wi' ye? In sooth, a bonny callant. And, oh me, Lotty, there is something tells your old mammy this night o' nights that this callant, this bonny English callant, will'——

She stopped suddenly.

'Forgive an old woman, sir,' she said to Antony, 'who is well-nigh in her dotage.'

She hastily dusted a chair with her apron, and signed to Antony to sit down.

The fire threw out a cheerful blaze, quite dimming the light of the wee oil lamp that hung against the whitewashed wall.

Not very many miles from this same pine-wood is the 'blasted heath' of Shakespeare; and this old woman, Crona, but for the look of kindness in her eyes, might well have represented one of the witches in Macbeth. A witch? Nay; but despite her high cheek-bones and wrinkled face, despite the gray and elfin locks that escaped from beneath her white 'mutch' or cap, let us rather call her 'wise woman,' for witches—if there be any such creatures—never read the Book of Books.

Any age 'twixt seventy and ninety Crona might have been, or even more than that; but Antony could not help noticing that she herself and all her surroundings were wonderfully clean, the fireside tidy, and the delf that stood on shelves or in cupboards shining and spotless. Her clothing, moreover, was immaculate; and Antony, though a mere man, saw that some of her garments were silk and almost new, so that they could not have been cast-offs or misfits from the gentry in the neighbourhood. Indeed, old though she was, she looked aristocratic enough to have repelled any well-meant offers of charity.

But humble though the abode, there were several strange, richly inlaid chests in it, and a cupboard or two in the antique that certainly would have been valuable to the connoisseur.

Antony loved nature, but he also loved a mystery, and here surely there was one.

The mystery was deepened when a remark that the young man made, or a phrase used, in good French led the conversation into that language. But when Antony made a somewhat awkward attempt to learn something of the old lady's history she adroitly turned the conversation.

Crona's creamy milk, those new-laid eggs, and the real Scottish scones with freshest of butter, made a supper that a prince would have enjoyed.

Crona now heaped more logs and peats on the hearth, for in these far northern regions the early autumn evenings are apt to be chill.

The peats blazed merrily but quietly, the logs flamed and fizzed and crackled, the jets of blazing gas therefrom lighting up every corner and cranny of the old-fashioned hut. Fir-logs were they, that had lain buried in moss or morass for thousands of years—had fallen, in fact, before the wintry blast ages before painted and club-armed men roamed the forests all around, fighting single-handed the boars and even bears in which these woods abounded.

Frank Antony really felt very happy to-night. The scene was quite to his taste, for he was a somewhat romantic youth, and everything strange and poetic appealed to him. With Lotty, beaming-eyed and rosy with the fire, sitting by Crona's knee listening to old-world tales and the crooning of old ballads, the fox and the cat curled up together in a corner, the curling smoke and cheerful fire, the young man was fascinated. Had London, he wondered, with its so-called life and society, anything to beat this?

'Some one's knocking at the door,' said Lotty, whose hearing was more acute than Crona's.

'It must be Joe,' said Crona. 'Poor Joe, he has been away in the woods all the evening, and must be damp and cauld!'

Lotty hastened to admit a splendid specimen of the raven—or he would have been splendid had not his wings and thigh-feathers been so draggled with dew. He advanced along the floor with a noisy flutter.

'Joe's cold, and Joe's cross,' croaked the bird, giving one impudent glance upwards at Antony, as much as to say, 'Who on earth are you next?' He was evidently in a temper. 'Joe's cold, and Joe's cross—cross—cross!' he shrieked.

Then he vented his passion on the hind-foot of the poor fox, which was thrust well out from his body. Reynard quietly drew in that leg and showed his teeth in an angry snarl. But the raven only held his head back, and laughed an eldritch laugh that rang through the rafters. His next move was to dislodge the cat and take her place on the top of Tod Lowrie, as the red fox was called. Joe felt warm there, so he fluffed out his feathers and went quietly to sleep.

When presently 'a wee tim'rous beastie' in the shape of a black mouse, with wondering dark eyes nearly as large as boot-buttons, crept from a corner and sat quietly down with its front to the fire and commenced to wash its little mite of a face, Frank Antony thought he must be dreaming. The cat took no notice of Tim (the mouse), and when Lotty bent down and stroked tiny Tim with the nail of her little finger he really seemed to enjoy it. Antony was prepared for anything that might happen after this.

When they were out again in the open moonlight, Antony said, 'Do you often go to Crona's cottage, Lotty?'

'Oh yes, when I can spare time. Crona is a granny to me, and I love her and Tim and Joe, Pussy, Tod Lowrie, and all.'

'A very happy little natural family.'

They were high on a hill by this time, and far beneath them, near the sea, its long lines of breakers silvered by the moonbeams, white canvas tents could be seen, and many moving lights.

'That is our pitch,' said Lotty. 'The big caravan is yours, sir; the little one not very far off is mine. That long, black, wooden building in the centre is the theatre and barracks.'

'How droll to have a theatre and barracks in a gipsy camp! I think I've come to a strange country, Lotty.'

'Oh, you won't be sorry, I'm sure. Father can't thrash you, and Wallace and myself will look well after you.'

'Thank you, Lotty.'

'I wonder who on earth Wallace is?' he thought.

He did not have long to wonder.

'I'm going to signal for Wallace,' said Lotty.

She stood on the very edge of a rocky precipice that went sheer down to the green sea-links below, full three hundred feet and over. Close by was the mark of a former fire.

'I always signal from here,' she said, 'and Wallace always comes. He is never happy when I am far away, and keeps watching for me.'

It didn't take the little gipsy lass long to scrape dry grass and twigs together. A leathern pouch hung from her girdle, and from this she produced a flint and steel, with some touch-paper, and in less than half a minute the signal-fire was alit.

A most romantic figure the girl presented as she stood there on the cliff, looking straight out seawards, one hand above her brow to screen her eyes from the red glare of the flames, her sweet, sad face a picture, with the night wind blowing back her wealth of soft fair hair and the silken frock from off her shapely limbs.

It was not the beauty but the sadness of Lotty's face that appealed to Antony most.

Why sad? That was the mystifying question.

He had taken a strange and indefinable interest in this twelve-year-old gipsy child. He had come down here to take away the caravan for which he was to pay a solid five hundred guineas, and had made up his mind to stay only a few days; but now on the cliff-top here he suddenly resolved that, if he could be amused, he would remain at the camp for as many weeks. He had no intention of travelling in the caravan during the wintry months. He would take the great carriage south by rail, and, starting from Brighton, do a record journey right away through England and Scotland from sea to sea, starting when the first green buds were on the trees and the larks carolling over the rolling downs of Sussex. So now he lay on the grass, waiting, and wondering who Wallace would be.

Hallo! Lotty has gone bounding past Antony to meet some one, her face transformed. No sadness now; only daft mirth and merriment, her arms extended, her curls anyhow all over her face and neck. A scream of delight, and next moment two very young and beautiful persons are rolling together on the half-withered grass.

One is Lotty, the other is Wallace her Newfoundland. Jet black is he all over, like the wings of Crona's raven—jet black, save for the glitter of his bonny eyes, the pink of his tongue, and alabaster flash of his marvellous teeth.

. . . . . . .

'See your room first, Mr Blake, and then come in to supper?'

The speaker was Nat Biffins Lee, master and proprietor of what he was wont to call 'The Queerest Show on Earth,' a broad, square, round-faced, somewhat burly man, with even teeth and a put-on smile that was seldom unshipped. Dressed in a loose velveteen jacket, with white waistcoat (diamond-mounted buttons), with an enormous spread of neck and upper chest. His loose cravat of green silk was tied in a sailor-knot so far beneath his fat chin that it seemed to belong more to the vest than to the loose shirt-collar.

'Here, hurry up, you kinchin, Lot!—Down, Wallace; kennel, sir.' Biffins cracked a short whip, and Lotty flew to obey.

The look of sadness had returned to her face. Her father's manner seemed to frighten her. But she tripped like a fairy up the back steps of the 'Gipsy Queen,' and stood waiting him while he entered.

Antony stood for a few moments on the stairtop. He was dazzled, bewildered. He had never seen so large a caravan, never could have believed that the interior of a caravan could lend itself to such art-decorations and beauty. This was no ordinary gipsy wagon, but a splendid and luxurious home-upon-wheels. The curtains, the hangings, mirrors, brackets, bookcase with pigmy editions of poetry and romance, the velvet lounge, the art chairs, the soft carpets, the crimson-shaded electric bulbs and the fairy lights gleaming up through beds of choice flowers above the china-cupboard in a recess, all spoke of and breathed refinement.

But no sign of a bedroom, till smiling Lotty stepped forward and touched a spring; then china-cupboard, with fairy lights and flowers and all, slowly revolved and disappeared, and, in its place, gauzy silken hangers scarce concealed the entrance to a pretty cabin bedroom, with curtained window and white-draped couch which seemed to invite repose. A cosy wee grate in a brass-protected corner, in which a cosy wee fire was burning, a small mirrored overmantel—making the room look double the size—table, looking-glass, books, pipe-rack, wine-cupboard, and a little lamp on gimbals that was swinging even now, for the wind had commenced to blow along the links, and the great caravan rocked and swayed like a ship in a seaway.

There were wild-flowers in vases even here, and a blithe little rose-linnet in a golden cage; but everything was so arranged that nothing could fall, rocked and swayed she ever so much.

Frank Antony was more than pleased; he was astonished and delighted. But who was, or had been, the presiding genius of all this artful beauty and elegance? Ah! there she stands demurely now, by the saloon cabin, herself so artless—a baby-woman. He drew her nearer to him to thank her. He kissed her shapely brown fingers, and he kissed her on the hair.

'Good-night, Lotty. Oh, by the way, Lotty, tell Mr Biffins—tell your father, I mean—that I am going to bed, too tired to take supper. Good-night, child.'

Five minutes after, the little brass knocker rattled, and Lotty peeped in again to say, 'All right about father, sir; and Chops will call for your boots in the morning.'

Frank Antony switched off the saloon light, and, retiring to his small cabin, helped himself to a glass of port and a biscuit, and then sat down by the fire to read.

As he smoked his modest pipe, which soothed his nerves after his long journey of over seven hundred miles, he felt glad he had not gone in to supper.

Whether or not love at first sight be possible I cannot say—cannot be sure; but no doubt we meet people in this world whom, from the very first, we feel we cannot like. Nat Biffins Lee seemed to be one of these to Frank Antony, at all events. There was that in his manner which was repellent, positively or rather negatively repellent. The man was evidently on the best of terms with himself, but his manners were too much of the circus-master to please Antony. And the young man was discontented with himself for feeling as he did.

Yet how could a man like this Biffins possess so gentle and sweet a child as Lotty for a daughter? It was puzzling. But then, Mrs Biffins Lee, the girl's mother—well, Lotty might have taken after her.

Perhaps Antony's thoughts were running riot to-night; one's thoughts, when very tired, are very apt to. He had read a whole page of the little volume he held in his hand without knowing in the very least what he had been reading. He shut his eyes now very hard as if to squeeze away drowsiness, then opened them wide to read the passage over again. It was a translation from the writings of some ancient Celtic bard which he had got hold of, strangely wild, almost uncouth, but still it seemed to accord with the situation, with the boom of the breaking waves and soft rocking of his home-upon-wheels. It was the lament of Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, for the death of her lover Oscar:

'It was the voice of my love! Seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina! Open your aerie halls, O father of Toscar of Shields! Unfold the gates of your clouds; the steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why didst thou come, O blast, from the dark rolling face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was in the tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she has beheld her love when his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts; they glittered like the gold of a stranger. It was the voice of my love! Seldom comes he to my dreams.

'But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian! My sighs arise with the beam of the east, my tears descend with the drops of night. I was a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head low. The spring returned with its showers; no leaf of mine arose. The virgins saw me silent in the hall; they touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina; the virgins beheld me in my grief. "Why art thou sad," they said, "thou first of the maids of Lutha? Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and stately in thy sight?"'

. . . . . . .

The 'Gipsy Queen' lay somewhat nearer to the cliffs than the barracks and the other caravans and tents. She had been placed here probably that Antony might have quietness.

Tall, rocky cliffs they were that frowned darkling over the northern ocean—rocks that for thousands of years had borne the brunt of the battle and the breeze, summer's sun and winter's storm. Hard as adamant were they, imperishable, for ne'er a stone had they parted with, and the grass grew up to the very foot.

The 'Gipsy Queen' was anchored fast to the greensward where the sea-pinks grew, and many a rare little wild-flower. And this sward was hard and firm, so that though gales might sweep along the links and level the tents it could only rock and sway the 'Gipsy Queen.'

Silence gradually fell over the encampment. Guys had been slackened round the tents, for the dews of night and the sea's salt spray would tauten the canvas long ere morning. The shouting of orders ceased and gave place to the twanging of harp-strings, the sweet strains of violin music, and voices raised in song. But these also ceased at last, and after this nothing could be heard save the occasional sonorous baying of some great hound on watch and the drowsy roar of the outgoing tide. But soon

The tide
Would sigh farther off,
As human sorrow sighs in sleep.

It occurred to Antony to look out just once before retiring for the night. So he passed through the saloon and gently opened the door. The white tents moving in the moonlight, the big black barn of a theatre, the gray, uncertain sea touched here and there with the sheen of moon and silver stars. Was that all? No; for not far from his own great caravan was a cosy, broad-wheeled gipsy-cart, from the wee curtained window of which a crimson light streamed over the yellow sand.

It must be Lotty's and Wallace's he believed. And there was a sense of companionship in the very thought that they were so near to him. So Antony locked his door and retired.

. . . . . . .

Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat.
It is next morning now.
Rat-tat.

'Hallo! hallo!' roared Antony. 'What on earth'——

Then, remembering where he was, he jumped out of bed, flew through the saloon, and opened the back-door.

A great, fat young face beamed up at him from the foot of the steps like a setting sun.

'It's only me, sir. It's only Chops, come for your boots, sir.'

'Here you are, Chops lad. But mind you don't black these; they're patent leather.'

'Lo'd love ye, sir, I knows to a nicety. I never does black patenters. Only just spits on 'em, sir. Back presently, sir, wi' your cup o' tea.'

The figure retreated, taking the fat face and the patent leather boots with it, and Frank Antony Blake yawned a bit and then proceeded to dress, wondering to himself what pleasure, if any, the coming day might bring him.

CHAPTER IV.
'EVER BEEN AN INFANT PRODIGY?' SAID LOTTY.

BUT the boy Chops returned almost immediately. 'Which I told Skeleton,' he said touching his forelock with his left hand by way of salute, 'to bring yer a cup o' nice tea, sir, an' breakfus is at eight; an' I brought ye these, as I doesn't like to see a gent in 'is stockin'-soles like, an' mayblins ye 'asn't got another pair o' shoes to yer name. These will fit, sir, I thinks, thinks I.'

Antony had been standing in the back-door of the caravan, looking out upon the brightness of a beautiful morning and the sunlight on the sea.

As the boy spoke he deposited a pair of huge, ungainly yellow slippers close beside the young man's dainty feet.

Antony glanced but once at them and stepped back, almost appalled.

'Goodness!' he cried. 'What are these? Take the horrid—er—take them away, boy.'

'A pair o' slippers wot belongs to the boss, sir. Oh, I'm sure 'e wouldn't mind yer awearin' of 'em. Boss ain't a bad sort—sometimes.'

'There, there, you're a thoughtful lad, I'm sure; but—er—if you don't mind, I'll wait for my boots.'

'Gemman wants ter see ye, sir,' said Chops a minute after.

The 'gemman' was the porter from the station, carrying Frank Antony's bag on his left shoulder. He was smiling and pleasant, quite in keeping with the sunny morning.

'I thank you, porter. This is ever so kind of you.'

'First train no' due yet, captain, for an hour and mair. Thought ye might be needin' something oot o' the bag, and so here it is. No, as sure as death, I'll no' tak' a penny. Weel, captain, as you are so pressin'. Thanks; and I'll drink your very good health as soon's the train's oot o' the station.'

The porter had barely gone ere Skeleton hove in sight with a small tray and the morning cup of tea.

Skeleton was very tall, very thin, and so sloping were his shoulders that his jacket seemed slipping off him. His poor face was like that of a snipe, and his eyes the eyes of an owl; two little spots of red were on his high cheek-bones.

No need to be told that this was the Living Skeleton of Biffins Lee's 'Queerest Show on Earth.'

'Are you very ill, poor fellow?'

'What, me? No, sir, I'm first chop. Could get stout in three weeks.'

'Then, for pity's sake, take a three weeks' holiday and fill yourself out.'

'What, me? And spoil the whole show, and lose my income?'

His voice was like that of some one speaking up from a vault.

'I know what you 're thinking, sir.'

'Well?'

'I could see your lips moving, and you seemed to be mumbling a morsel of the Immortal William to yourself. Would you like to have a look at my wife, sir?'

Antony was sitting on a camp-stool, enjoying his tea.

'No, I don't want to have a look at her. What should I want to have a look at your wife for?'

'Oh, she would please you all to pieces.—Mary, my sweet little darling,' he cried, 'flutter this way a moment that our newly come Gipsy King may feast his optics on thy fairy form.'

And Mary did flutter in sight, and presently stood beside Skeleton, smiling and comely.

And this fairy must have turned the scale at five-and-twenty stone! But, so merry her smile and the twinkle in her eyes that, rude though he felt it to be, Antony could not help bursting into a hearty laugh. And she kept him company too.

'I'm really not laughing, you know; but—ha! ha! ha! I'——

'And I'm really not laughing,' cried Mary. 'But—he! he! he! I'——

'This isn't your wife, Skeleton? Now, really, is it, you know?'

'In course she is,' cried the Skeleton. 'You don't mean to go for to think that I'——

'No, no, my good sir, I shouldn't think so for a moment.'

Mary now hit her memento mori of a husband a ringing slap on his bony back.

'Go and do something,' she exclaimed.

Skeleton was evidently accustomed to obey, and bolted at once to do something.

Mary looked after him with a satisfied sigh.

'I've taught my hubbie what man's chief duty is: to do what his missus bids him. Beautiful morning, isn't it, sir,' she added.

Antony made no attempt to deny it.

'You seem very happy here, on the whole,' he remarked.

'Oh, very, sir. But, of course, we all look forward to something better.'

'Beyond death and the grave, eh?'

'Who said anything about death and the grave? Who's going to talk about graves on a day like this? No, sir; but hubbie and I, after a time, look forward to retiring from the show-line and taking a little poultry and milk farm. Then he'll grow fat and I'll grow lean, till we meet like, and live happy ever after. But here comes Chops.'

And Mary floated away.

‘’Am an' heggs, sir; grilled salmon, sir; an' 'spatch-cock! An' w'ich will yer 'ave?'

'What is 'spatch-cock, Master Chops?'

'First ye catches yer little cock, sir, no matter w'ere. Then, w'en 'e's dead an' trussed, ye divides 'im down the back like a kippered 'erring, an' does 'im over a clear fire—gipsy fashion.'

'I'll have 'spatch-cock, Chops.'

'An' please, sir, I was to take the boss's compliments, an' would ye like to 'ave yer meals in the big marquee or in the caravan all by yerself like?'

'My compliments to your master, and please say I'm too shy yet, and so I'll feed where I am for a day or two.'

'Right ye be, sir, an' I was to 'tend on ye like. An' Mrs Pendlebury will make yer bed an' tidy up, an' Lotty Biffins Lee 'erself will put in the wild-flowers.'

'Capital! But who is Mrs Pendlebury?'

'Why, she as 'as just gone hoff—Skeleton's wife.'