"I shall never be ruler of the Romanys.

I shall never hear--" "You'll hear the bosh played-fiddle, they call it in these heathen places--at your second wedding with Jethro Fawe," he rejoined insolently, lighting his cigarette.

"Home you'll come with me soon--'ay bor'!" "Listen to me," she answered with anger tingling in every nerve and fibre.

"I come of your race, I was what you are, a child of the hedge and the wood and the road; but that is all done.

Home, you say! Home--in a tent by the roadside or--" "As your mother lived--where you were bornwell, well, but here's a Romany lass that's forgot her cradle!" "I have forgotten nothing.