‘Oh, that’s what you wanted to say!’ said she; ’you think Videy knows something about Winnie.  But that’s all a fancy o’ yourn, and it’s of no use looking for Winnie any more among the Romanies.  Even supposin’ you did hear the Welsh gillie—­and I think it was all a fancy—­you can’t make nothin’ out o’ them baskets as your aunt seed.  Us Romanies don’t make one in a hundud of the fancy baskets as is sold for Gypsy baskets in the streets, and besides, the hawkers and costers what buys ’em of us sells ’em agin to other hawkers and costers, and there ain’t no tracin’ on ’em.’

I argued the point with her.  At last I felt convinced that I was again on the wrong track.  By this time the sun had set, and the stars were out.  I had noticed that during our talk Sinfi’s attention would sometimes seem to be distracted from the matter in hand, and I had observed her give a little start now and then, as though listening to something in the distance.

‘What are you listening to?’ I inquired at last.  ‘Reia,’ said Sinfi, ‘I’ve been a-listenin’ to a v’ice as nobody can’t hear on’y me, an’ I’ve bin a-seein’ a face peepin’ atween the leaves o’ the trees as nobody can’t see on’y me; my mammy’s been to me.  I thought she would come here.  They say my mammy’s mammy wur buried here, an’ she wur the child of Fenella, an’ that’s why it’s called Gypsy Ring.  The moment I sat down in this Ring a mullo [spirit] come and whispered in my ear, but I can’t make out whether it’s my mammy or Fenella Stanley, and I can’t make out what she said.  It’s hard sometimes for them as has to gnaw their way out o’ the groun’ to get their words out clear. [Footnote] Howsomever, this I do know, reia, you an’ me must part.  I felt as we must part when we was in Wales togither last time, and now I knows it.’

[Footnote:  Some Romanies think that spirits rise from the ground.]

‘Part, Sinfi!  Not if I can prevent it.’

‘Reia,’ replied Sinfi emphatically, ’when I’ve wonst made up my mind, you know it’s made up for good an’ all.  When us two leaves this ’ere Ring to-night, you’ll turn your ways and I shall turn mine.’

I thought it best to let the subject drop.  Perhaps by the time we had left the Ring this mood would have passed.  After a minute or so she said,

‘You needn’t see no fear about not marryin’ Winifred Wynne.  You must marry her; your dukkeripen on Snowdon didn’t show itself there for nothink.  When you two was a-settin’ by the pool, a-eatin’ the breakfiss, I was a-lookin’ at you round the corner of the rock.  I seed a little kindlin’ cloud break away and go floatin’ over your heads, and then it shaped itself into what us Romanies calls the Golden Hand.  You know what the Golden Hand means when it comes over two sweethearts?  You don’t believe it?  Ask Rhona Boswell!  Here she comes a-singin’ to herself.  She’s trying to get away from that devil of a Scollard as says she’s bound to marry him.  I’ve