“I think you had best not bring Miss Julia in, for I fear my children are sickening with the measles, and I should be sorry the pretty soul ran the risk of taking them,” said a fisherman’s wife to Julia Aubrey’s nurse, who had been desired in the course of their stroll on the beach to call and give directions concerning some fruit-nets on which the poor woman was employed. The nurse looked perplexed; she had many directions to give, and this was an office of which she was particularly fond.
“‘O do trust me, nurse, while you go in,’ said Julia eagerly; ‘the beach is very wide here, and I promise I will not go near the edge; I will only keep close to the rocks to look for the little shells which are always left by the tide sticking in the clefts. You will find me just round that corner.’ The nurse still hesitated. ‘Do, dear nurse,’ said Julia coaxingly, ‘do trust me; you know that the birds are eating all the fruit, and that the gardener has told you all about the sizes the nets should be. He can’t come here with his broken leg himself, and every one else but you would blunder about it.’
“This last argument, though not intentional artifice on Julia’s part, was certain to carry her point. Julia’s nurse contented herself with reminding her of her promise to keep away from the waves, and to be sure not to go beyond the ‘black rock just round the corner.’ Away tripped Julia, and proud of being trusted out of sight, never stopped till she had attained the utmost limit of her furlough. The corner of the cliff once turned, she placed her little basket on the shingle, and stooping down, began busily to pick up the shells and sea weeds, which, still wet and shining, glittered most temptingly in the sun. Her own intentness on her employment, and the deafening murmur of the waves, chafed as they were at that point by the broken rocks that fretted their course, prevented Julia from hearing an approaching step, and the terrified child all at once found her bonnet roughly snatched off, and her whole head tightly muffled in a woollen cloak. To scream was impossible, for besides the folds of the cloak, the unhappy child felt a hard bony hand clapped over them on her mouth. In this way she was carried rapidly along some distance, when the person who bore her suddenly stopped. ‘What have you got there?’ asked a harsh voice.
“‘Why, I hardly know, and I hardly know why I took her,’ was the reply, and the old gipsy (for such she was) shook Julia roughly off her shoulders. ‘I had been prowling about,’ continued she, ‘since cock-crow, and had knapped nothing; so, as I found this chick without a hen to watch it, I took it, rather not to come back without booty, than for any good it is like to do us.’
“‘Good!’ exclaimed the first voice; ‘I think it’s like to do us a great deal of ill! They’ll rid the country of us if they catch us, and I think the sooner we rid it of ourselves the better. We had best take to the boat again directly. Our old comrade, Dick the smuggler, is now below just ready to push off, and as his boat brought us at sunrise, so it had better take us back at sunset, for aught I can see.’
“‘Do you grumble at what I have done?’ said the old woman in a voice of rage and authority: ‘A’n’t I the mother and the ruler of your tribe, eh? However, the counsel itself,’ added she less harshly, ‘is good, and the sooner we are off, I believe, the better.’
“Dick the smuggler, who had lately exchanged for that, his former profession of gipsy, readily consented to convey the party to some unfrequented part of the coast, and as soon as the boat was fairly at sea, Julia’s head was unmuffled, and she was at least allowed to cry for a few moments at her ease.
“I will not attempt to describe her feelings; indeed, she was too young to allow of their taking a connected turn. My little readers can easily guess what it would be to be torn away from their own sweet home, and all the dear accustomed faces and soft familiar voices attendant on it, and to find themselves rocking in a rude boat on the rough sea, surrounded by strange figures, haggard and horrible, and voices rough or shrill, sometimes uttering unintelligible gibberish, and sometimes harshly scolding her for being ‘such a simpleton as to cry when nobody was hurting her;’ adding a threat, that if she did ‘not stop her whimpering, they would give her something to cry for in good earnest.’ The evening of the next day found the gipsy party safely landed, and encamping for the night at the edge of the New Forest. The old gipsy heaped some cloaks on the ground, and pointing them out to Julia, told her to ‘go to rest, for that was her bed.’ The poor child stopped her sobbing, and instinctively dropped on her knees, as if she had been in her own quiet nursery, and clasping her little hands, began her evening prayer. ‘O Lord, thou art a God of great power and mercy, thou seest me by night as well as by day;’ when she was stopped by a blow across the shoulders from the old gipsy, accompanied by an angry order to ‘lie down; for,’ added she, muttering, ‘who that sees her do that, will think she belongs to us?’
“But there was one of the horde on whom Julia’s action and half-finished prayer had made a far different impression. There was among the gipsies an orphan girl, named Keziah: her father and mother had died in her infancy, and her grandmother (the same old woman who had stolen Julia) had brought her up with more of tenderness than might appear to have belonged to her nature. She was delicate in health, and timid in disposition; so that, not being thought fit to share in their predatory excursions, it was generally her office to remain with their tent, to watch their fires, or to dress the provisions they brought. Solitude had given a thoughtful cast to her young mind, and many were the vague notions of better things that wavered across it during her hours of lonely watching in the dark hollows of the woods, or the quiet nooks of the green lanes in which their tent was commonly pitched. She had, too, occasionally heard the sabbath bells, and she had seen from the hills the villagers flocking to their parish churches; and well she knew they went there to worship some Being of whom she had been taught nothing; and when the last lingerers had quitted their leaning postures by the rails and grave-stones in the sunny churchyard, and the sound of the closing of the doors reached her ears, followed by the burst of solemn melody as the congregation, with one heart and one voice, sent up the sacrifice of their morning hymn, Keziah would throw herself on the green sward, and folding her arms passionately across her breast, sob out, ‘O that I could hear the words that flow from those happy, happy lips, that I might join them too!’ But any questions which she ventured on the subject of the unknown Being whom she panted to worship, were received with ridicule by the younger gipsies, and with anger by her grandmother. The beginning of Julia’s simple prayer—‘O Lord, thou art a God of power and great mercy, thou seest me by night as well as by day,’ gave the poor ignorant Keziah more knowledge of her Creator than she had ever before had an opportunity of possessing. ‘She shall teach me,’ thought the young gipsy to herself; and when she laid herself down to rest that night, she drew her heap of straw close to Julia’s bed, and clasping her own hands beneath her cloak, she repeated in her heart the words she had just heard uttered.
“The terror and fatigue of the preceding day, and a night passed in the open air, had their natural effect on poor Julia. The next morning she was ill.
“‘What shall we do?’ said the old gipsy; ‘it would bode us no good that she should die here. Keziah,’ added she, ‘thou art fonder of nursing sick bantlings than the rest of us, I give this one to your charge. If she gets well, thou canst make her pick sticks for thee to feed the fires, and she will be some company for thee, and may be, hinder thee from getting so mopish as thou hast done of late, by being left so much alone.’
“Keziah received her charge most gladly, and from that hour Julia was carried on the young gipsy’s back by day, and folded in her arms, with her cloak wrapped closely round her, by night. To guard her little charge from fresh cold, Keziah spread a tent each night, under which they slept. She purposely placed it a few yards distant from the rest of the party, and before they composed themselves to sleep, she said softly to Julia, ‘Now you may safely kneel down and say what my grandmother hindered you from saying the first night you were with us, but not too loud, and you shall teach it to me too in a whisper.’
“‘O, may I?’ said Julia. ‘I shall not be so very unhappy now, for that will make me fancy myself at my home before I go to sleep, and then perhaps God will comfort me by letting me dream of my own dear papa and mama; and I will teach you my morning prayer also, and my catechism that I used to read every morning in my bed. It is about ‘the great God who made heaven and earth,’ and about his Son Jesus Christ’s coming down from the sky to die for us, that God might forgive us our sins, and about our going to live with God in heaven after we die if we are good, and going to everlasting fire if we are wicked. O, I will tell you all mama has taught me, for you are very kind to me, though you do live with that cruel old woman.’
“‘Hush!’ said Keziah, ‘she is my mother’s mother, and she is kind to me; but I wonder she could find in her heart to bring you away; but I will do all I can to comfort you, if I cannot make you happy;’—and the young gipsy kept her word.
“From this time Keziah and her little charge were inseparable. During the absence of the rest of the party on their foraging excursions, Keziah and Julia were left for hours together alone. These hours were sometimes passed by Keziah in eagerly listening to all that her little companion could tell her of her God and her religion; sometimes, to amuse the poor child, the gipsy girl would sing to her the wild ballads of her tribe; sometimes she would teach her to detect the scarlet strawberry from beneath its dark green leaf, or the dormouse’s moss-covered hoard. She would tell her the names and notes of the woodland birds, and point out to her the crested wren’s nest swinging from the branches of the oak, or the oval one of the blue titmouse, wove of many-coloured lichens, and filled so full of tiny eggs with the yoke blushing through their transparent shell. At other times they would watch together the parent squirrels climbing over their nest, followed by their young ones, to be carefully practised in balancing their feeble limbs on the waving branches of the firs, and, their daily exercise over, to be led back to rest and shelter; often too the young gipsy would teach her little favourite to plat baskets of rushes and variously tinted mosses. At these times, Keziah’s promise was more than kept: Julia was ‘comforted,’ and not unhappy; but then came the old gipsy’s return, and her detested sight brought back all Julia’s terror and heart-breaking pinings for her home.
“Nearly four months had passed since Julia had first been stolen by the gipsy, and the party were encamped in a secluded hollow of Windsor Forest, about two miles distant from the town of Egham. The prospect of the races had drawn the gipsies to the spot. The number of the idle and the thoughtless which such a scene attracts, the pauses between the heats, to relieve the tediousness of which any amusement of the moment is eagerly caught at, promised a rich harvest to the tribe of whom fortune-telling was one of the most profitable callings. ‘I must have the loan of your puppet for the day, Keziah,’ said the old woman on the first morning of the races; ‘a pretty face at one’s back pays well on a race-course.’
“Keziah and Julia exchanged sorrowful looks; it was all they dared do, and even this was observed by the keen-eyed gipsy. She stooped her shrunk body so as to bring her withered face even with her victims, and grinding her teeth, muttered in a voice of suppressed fury, ‘And hark ye, good for nought, if thee dost but speak or look without my bidding, no fowl that thou hast seen plucked and roasted by our crackling fire, has ever died the death that thou shalt.’ Then pausing to enforce the warning, she pointed her skinny finger, and shook her grizzly head, and ordered Keziah to ‘pack the bantling on her back.’ The girl obeyed, and as she arranged the folds of the cloak so as to shade her poor favourite from the scorching rays of the sun, she imprinted a kiss and a tear on her pale, pale cheek.
“Once more, then, the terrified Julia found herself in the grasp of her cruel enemy, who, without speaking to her again, tramped on at a rapid pace towards the race-course.
“The sight of the gay carriages filled with ladies (‘such looking ladies,’ thought poor Julia, ‘as her mama’s friends used to be,’) brought a momentary gleam of joy to her mind; but it vanished in an instant, for, as if guessing the feeling, the old gipsy made a sudden stop, and turning back her head, again shook her grizzly locks, again pointed her bony finger, and grinning horribly, muttered the terrible word—‘Remember!’
“Many were the silver coins which were grasped in the old gipsy’s hand that day. With the cunning of her tribe, she knew how to adapt her language to the temper of each party that she addressed. To the young and trifling she presented herself as a shrewd and flattering fortune-teller; to the old and grave, as a starving beggar, with an orphan grand-child depending on her for support; and many a copper coin was exchanged for one of silver, when the donor chanced to cast a look at the pale and innocent face which looked sadly from the gipsy’s shoulder.
“Among the former description of parties one now attracted the old woman’s notice. An open barouche contained a lady, with two or three merry-looking girls, who might be her daughters: they were gaily chattering with their brothers and their brother’s friends, some of whom were hanging about the carriage, and others coaxing their horses to stand patiently near it.
“‘Do ye draw off your glove from your pretty white hand, and let me just cross the marks with a bit of silver.’
“‘We don’t want our fortunes told, my good woman,’ said the elder lady.
“‘Not you I know, my lady; your’s is made already, and a happy one it is, my lady; but these pretty young ladies would surely like to know.’
“‘Do send the woman away, George,’ said Mrs. Carleton, addressing her son, ‘I am quite sure she will get knocked down among all these horses, and that poor child at her back looks frightened out of its very senses.’
“At that moment there was a rush to the ropes. The clerk of the course was clearing it. The sudden crack of his whip, accompanied by the shouts of the people near him, alarmed the horses round Mrs. Carleton’s carriage: one of them made a desperate plunge, and in an instant the old gipsy was trampled beneath its feet. A scream of horror burst from Mrs. Carleton’s lips, whilst all the young men instantly dismounted and crowded round the unfortunate gipsy. ‘Is she killed? O tell me! Is the child injured?—Do speak,’ continued Mrs. Carleton.
“‘The old woman is certainly stunned, and I fear her forehead has been severely kicked. The child is not hurt; she dropped it from her back, I believe, the moment the horse first plunged,’ answered her son.
“‘O pray lift the poor child into the carriage!’ said his mother, ‘I will take charge of her for the present; the poor old woman had better be carried instantly into a booth, and see what can be done for her.’
“‘The surgeon of our regiment is on the course,’ said Captain Wyndham, one of the gentlemen who stood near; ‘I will ride instantly, and seek for him.’
“‘O do!’ exclaimed Mrs. Carleton; ‘and George, you can endeavour to find out any of the gipsy party to which the unfortunate old woman belongs, and tell them where the child may be found, for I will drive directly home, and take the poor little creature with me.’
“In another moment the carriage was rapidly proceeding towards Oakley Hall, while poor little Julia sat pale and trembling on Mrs. Carleton’s lap, every now and then bending forward and looking fearfully behind. The Carletons watched her in silent pity, attributing her anxious looks and evident trepidation to alarm for the fate of the wretched gipsy. At length Julia could bear her suspense no longer, and she timidly whispered—‘Will she follow us?’
“‘I hope she soon may be able,’ replied Mrs. Carleton, wishing to soothe the anxious child. Julia shuddered, and became again silent.
“‘Emma,’ said Mrs. Carleton to her younger daughter, when they reached home, ‘I give this poor child into your care, while your sisters and I are at dinner. Comfort her as well as you can perhaps, when your brothers and their friends return, we may have some hope to give her of the poor old woman’s safety—perhaps she may soon be with her again.’
“‘O no!’ Julia was going to add, but the recollection of the terrible look and the terrible threat checked her, and she followed her young conductress in silence to the school-room. Scarcely had General and Mrs. Carleton sat down to dinner, after waiting some time for the return of the rest of the party, when their son and his friends entered the room. They looked grave and harassed, and Mrs. Carleton at once guessed the tidings which they brought. All efforts to save the old gipsy had proved vain; but once only had she opened her eyes, and darted a searching look of mingled rage and pain amongst those who stood around her, as if she wished to detect and blast the author of her calamity;—but once, and then they were closed again, and for ever!
“All attempts to discover traces of any of the party to whom she might be supposed to belong had proved fruitless. Two or three other gipsies had indeed been seen on the course during the day, but at what hour they had left it, and in what direction, no one appeared to have observed.
“The dinner lingered on without any of the party appearing much disposed to partake of it, when one of the servants brought a note to Mrs. Carleton. It was written in pencil, and from her daughter Emma. ‘Dear mama,’ she wrote, ‘all of us, and our governess too, feel quite certain that the poor child you have brought home did not really belong to the old gipsy, but had been stolen. We judge from her whole manner, and the things we find, that she has been taught; but when we question her she only cries, without attempting to answer.—May we dress her in one of Ellen’s frocks, and bring her down with us after dinner?’
“‘I fear this is some romantic fancy of the children’s, to which their good-natured governess is won over,’ said Mrs. Carleton, sending the note to the General; ‘however, I want to see the poor little creature myself. Tell Miss Emma,’ continued she, addressing the servant, ‘that I have no objection to her doing as she proposes.’
“In a short time, then, behold the door open, and our poor little Julia entering between her young protectresses.
“She was dressed in a white muslin frock, her beautiful fair hair, no longer rough and entangled, fell in graceful ringlets over her shoulders, and mixed itself with the blue ribbons which looped her sleeves. She bent her delicate neck forward, and stood in an attitude of suspense, her sweet eyes looking timidly through their dark lashes as if in search of some dreaded object, her young lips parted, and her transparent cheek varying with every instant that passed by. All at once, she loosed her hands from those of her companions, drew a deep breath, whilst her forehead and neck became flushed with crimson, stood one moment irresolute, and then exclaiming, ‘There are none of them here, and you all look as if you might be my own mama’s friends!’ ran to Mrs. Carleton, and first burying her face in her lap, and then raising it, and looking beseechingly in her face, added, ‘You would not be afraid of the gipsies if they were to come, would you?—There are so many of you!—You will not let them have me, will you? O how my papa and mama will love you, if you will give me back to them again!’
“Mrs. Carleton was at once convinced that her daughter’s belief was correct: and deeply affected by the poor child’s earnest appeal, she took her in her arms, and mixing tears with her kisses, assured her that she would never part with her excepting to her ‘own mama.’ ‘Then,’ continued she, ‘you did not love the old gipsy, my poor child?’
“‘O no,’ whispered Julia, instinctively glancing round, as the terrible look crossed her memory; ‘I could not love her, and that often made me unhappy, because my own mama had told me that I ought to love every body, and so I used before that dreadful old woman carried me away.—Do you think my mama will be vexed when she knows I did not love her?’
“Mrs. Carleton now asked Julia to relate to her all she was able of the circumstances attending her being stolen. Poor Julia’s story was soon and simply told, and listened to with the deepest interest by her new friends. But when she was asked her parent’s name, and the place of their abode, she could only answer that her papa ‘used to be called Sir Charles, and that she was called Miss Julia, and that the name of her home was the Abbey.’
“‘It is strange,’ said General Carleton, ‘that we have no recollection of having heard of the disappearance of a child under such singular circumstances.’
“‘You must remember,’ replied Mrs. Carleton, ‘that we were probably abroad at the time, and an event of such a nature, however talked of at the moment, is soon forgotten by those not immediately interested.’
“‘I think I do remember something of the kind in the papers during the Easter vacation,’ said George Carleton; ‘but I know our old curate hoards up all his newspapers; let us question the little girl as to time, and then we can send for a packet of the right date.’ Julia’s simple calendar of the events of the month in which her woodland life first began, agreed with George Carleton’s recollection—‘The hawthorn was in blossom, and the hedges full of birds’-nests; the violets and primroses were nearly over, but the cowslips still in flower.’
“The packet of newspapers was soon before them, and ere long their search rewarded by the discovery of the following paragraph:—‘We lament to state that a melancholy occurrence took place on the 2nd instant at Coombe Beach, by which Sir Charles and Lady Aubrey have been plunged into the deepest affliction. Their only child, a lovely and interesting little girl of five years of age, had been imprudently left on the shingle while her nurse went into a fisherman’s cottage. On the return of the woman, shocking to relate, her charge was nowhere to be found; but her bonnet floating on the waves, and her little basket half full of wet sea-weeds lying on the shingle, too plainly proved that having ventured too near the edge, she had been caught by a wave, and carried out to perish in the sea. The body has not yet been washed on shore.’
“The shades of evening had fallen, the curtains had been closed, and the lamps placed in the drawing-room of Cove Abbey. It was the evening of their lost Julia’s birth-day; and though no open allusion had been made to this circumstance either by Sir Charles or Lady Aubrey, yet the tender and watchful attentions of the former, and the forced cheerfulness of the latter, sufficiently proved to each the recollection that was uppermost in their minds. Lady Aubrey was apparently intent upon her work, but her head was frequently turned, and her slender finger raised to brush away the tears that gathered on her eyelids. Sir Charles stooped over an open book, his forehead rested on his hand, but from beneath its shade many were the stolen and sorrowful glances which he cast at the evidences of patient grief before him.
“Suddenly they were startled from their sad thoughts by the sound of the gate bell, followed by that of wheels rolling rapidly through the court. ‘Who can be coming at this hour?’ exclaimed Sir Charles.
“‘And on this night!’ added Lady Aubrey, with a tremulous voice. The next moment the servant opened the door, and presented a card to Sir Charles, saying, ‘The gentleman requests, Sir, to be allowed to speak a few minutes with you in private,—General Carleton.’
“‘I know no such person,’ said Sir Charles; ‘however,’ added he to the servant, ‘order lights into the library, and show the gentleman there. I will attend him immediately.’
“The servant left the room, and Sir Charles lingered an instant to address a few words of soothing tenderness to Lady Aubrey, and then followed to the library to join his unknown guest. What was his surprise, when, instead of a formal explanation of the purport of his visit, he found his hand eagerly grasped by the stranger, while he said with a voice tremulous from emotion, ‘Sir Charles, can you bear good news?’
“‘I have already borne evil tidings,’ answered Sir Charles sorrowfully, ‘and I believe, were happy ones in store, they would not upset me.’
“‘Your child, then, is safe!’
“‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Sir Charles, staggering, and grasping a pillar for support, ‘say, say the words again, that I may know I heard them right.’
“‘Your child is safe, and,’ continued General Carleton, speaking slowly, and watching the effect his words produced, ‘she is under my care—she is here—here in my carriage—at your door.’ Sir Charles’s first impulse was to rush from the room, his second to return, and lay his hand on General Carleton’s shoulder; ‘I cannot thank you now, but may God reward you for all we must have owed you. I will not even see my child till I have imparted the strange, joyful tidings to her broken-hearted mother;—but you, our best friend, you will bring her here, and when her mother is in a state to bear the meeting, I will lead her to our child.’
“There are some scenes which cannot be described in words, because in them words have no share. I will pass over, then, the mute swelling of the heart which followed Lady Aubrey’s first hearing of the safety of her long-lost child, the burst of passionate tears which relieved that suffocating feeling, the perpetual claspings to the heart, the long kisses that seemed as if they could not end, which marked the first meeting between the parents and their child; the questionings, the explanations between them, the fervent thanks that were poured on the kind-hearted General Carleton; and hasten to relate an event which was alone wanting to the completion of Julia’s newly-restored happiness.
“Mrs. Aubrey and her daughter were hastening home one evening in September from sauntering in the shrubberies which surrounded the Abbey. The birds were busily preparing to roost, and darting into their accustomed haunts in every direction. ‘What is that small-speckled bird, mama, with a long bent bill, that has just forced itself into the ivy round the sycamore-tree?’ exclaimed Julia.
“‘I remarked it also,’ replied her mama, ‘but I have no idea of what species it could be.’
“‘O, if Keziah was here, she could tell me in a moment,’ said Julia sadly! ‘she knew every bird that flies.’
“‘I really believe,’ said Lady Aubrey, half reproachfully, ‘that my little girl sometimes almost pines after her woodland life with that young gipsy.’
“‘Not after my life, mama!—O don’t say that!—but I do want sadly to see poor, poor Keziah once more.—O if you did but know how kind and good she was, how she used to carry me on her back when she was ready to drop herself, and how she used to rob herself of all her own poor covering at night for my sake, and how she used to let me talk to her of you and my papa, and pray that God would bless you for having taught me such wonderful things of Him and of his goodness, you would not wonder that I love her, and that it grieves me to think she is still obliged to lead a life that she hates with those wicked, wicked gipsies.—O mama! I believe that but for her, I should never, never have lived to come back to you again!’—and Julia burst into tears.
“‘I do not wonder at your feelings, my child,’ said Lady Aubrey soothingly, ‘and I love your poor Keziah too; and would to God that I could repay her for all she has done for you!’
“They now reached the house, and were met by a servant, who told Lady Aubrey that ‘a young girl was waiting, and earnestly begged to be allowed to speak to her, or to Miss Julia.’
“‘To me!’ cried Julia; ‘O it must, it must be Keziah!’
“‘What is her appearance?’ asked Lady Aubrey.
“‘She might be a gipsy, my lady, from her eyes and complexion,’ said the old butler; ‘but her manner is quite different—quite modest and simple.’
“‘O, mama, let her, let her come; I know it is Keziah.’
“Lady Aubrey changed colour—‘Are you sure there are no others lurking near the house?’
“‘I have seen none, my lady.’
“‘Well, let her come,’ said Lady Aubrey: ‘but do you, Andrews, stay near.’ The old man soon returned, followed by the slight and almost shadowy form of the gipsy girl. The next instant Julia had sprung to her neck. Keziah looked timidly towards Lady Aubrey as if doubting whether she might venture to return the grateful child’s caresses; but the moist eyes and kindly smile that met her glance encouraged her, and kissing Julia’s forehead and hands, she burst into a flood of tears. Keziah’s history was quickly told. As soon as the report of the old woman’s fearful accident, and the child’s being safe and taken under a lady’s protection, had reached the ears of the gipsies, who had also attended the race-course, they concluded that a discovery of their share in the detention of the child was certain; and instantly quitting the course, they hastened by by-paths to join the rest of the gang, whom they had left in the forest. It was immediately determined that, for the general safety, they should disperse and join themselves singly to such tribes as they might be able to fall in with; and Keziah, who had always been despised by some for her timidity, and hated by others for the partiality with which her grandmother had regarded her, was permitted to take her own lonesome way unquestioned and uncared for. Her resolution was soon formed. She owed no duty to any but the old woman who had met with so terrific an end. The gipsy life, always distasteful, was now become loathsome to her. She determined to beg her way to Julia’s home, to give what tidings she could of her to her parents, if she was not yet restored to them, and at all events to throw herself on their protection, offering her labour for her bread.
“Many were the dangers and privations which the poor girl had met with on her weary way. She had sometimes subsisted for days and days on nuts, roots, and berries; she has sometimes been reduced to beg, and the glittering silver had been held out to tempt her to spell fortunes: ‘but,’ said she, with a glow of honest pride, spreading over her fine expressive features, ‘the bread of deceit has never touched these lips.’
“Keziah was now established for ever in her grateful Julia’s home. The thirst of her soul was gratified. She learned all she had so yearned to know, of her God, her Saviour, her religion. She had no longer to gaze at a distance and with mysterious awe, on the walls of a forbidden church, but she was admitted within its doors, to become, by the rite of baptism, in name, as she was already in heart—a Christian.”