‘Oh, Sinfi,’ I said; as we stood watching the peculiar bright yellow trout in Lake Ogwen, ’she is starving—­starving on the hills—­while millions of people are eating, gorging, wasting food.  I shall go mad!’

Sinfi looked at me mournfully, and said: 

‘It’s a bad job, reia, but if poor Winnie Wynne’s a-starvin’ it ain’t the fault o’ them as happens to ha’ got the full belly.  There ain’t a Romany in Wales, nor there ain’t a Gorgio nuther, as wouldn’t give Winnie a crust, if wonst we could find her.’

‘To think of this great, rich world,’ I exclaimed (to myself, not to the Gypsy), ’choke-full of harvest, bursting with grain, while famishing on the hills for a mouthful is she—­the one!’

‘Reia,’ said Sinfi, with much solemnity, ‘the world’s full o’ vittles; what’s wanted is jist a hand as can put the vittles and the mouths where they ought to be—­cluss togither.  That’s what the hungry Romany says when he snares a hare or a rabbit.’

We walked on.  After a while Sinfi said:  ‘A Romany knows more o’ these here kinds o’ things, reia, than a Gorgio does.  It’s my belief as Winnie Wynne ain’t a-starvin’ on the hills; she ain’t got to starve; she’s on’y got to beg her bread.  She’ll have to do that, of course; but beggin’ ain’t so bad as starvin’, after all!  There’s some as begs for the love on it.  Videy does.’

I knew by this time that it was useless to battle against Sinfi’s conviction that the curse would have to be literally fulfilled, so I kept silence.  While she was speaking I was suddenly struck by a thought that ought to have come before.

‘Sinfi,’ I said, ’didn’t you know an English lady named Dalrymple, who lodged with Mrs. Davies for some years?’

‘Yis,’ said Sinfi, ‘and I did think o’ her.  She went to live at Carnarvon.  But supposin’ that Winnie had gone to the English lady—­supposin’ that she know’d where to find her—­the lady ’ud never ha’ let her go away, she was so fond on her.  It was Miss Dalrymple as sp’ilt Winnie, a-givin’ her lady-notions.’

However, I determined to see Miss Dalrymple, and started alone for Carnarvon at once.  By making inquiries at the Carnarvon post-office I found Miss Dalrymple, a pale-faced, careworn lady of extraordinary culture, who evinced the greatest affection for Winifred.  She had seen nothing of her, and was much distressed at the fragments of Winifred’s story which I thought it well to give her.  When she bade me good-bye, she said, ’I know something of your family.  I know your mother and aunt.  The sweet girl you are seeking is in my judgment one of the most gifted young women living.  Her education, as you may be aware, she owes mainly to me.  But she took to every kind of intellectual pursuit by instinct.  Reared in a poor Welsh cottage as she was, there is, I believe, almost no place in society that she is not fitted to fill.’

On leaving Carnarvon I returned to Sinfi Lovell.