The figure was that of a gipsy, and the garments, as Tamar glanced
fearfully at them as they floated in a line with her steps, bespoke a
variety of wretchedness scarcely consistent with the proud and elastic
march of her who wore them.
Whilst Tamar felt a vague sense of terror stealing over her, the woman
spoke, addressing her without ceremony, saying, "So you have been driven
to come this way at last; have you been so daintily reared that you
cannot wade a burn which has scarcely depth enough to cover the pebbles
in its channel. Look you," she added, raising her arm, and pointing her
finger,--"see you yon rising ground to the left of those fir trees on
the edge of the moor,--from the summit of that height the sea is
visible, and I must, ere many hours, be upon those waters, in such a
bark as you delicately-bred dames would not confide in on a summer's
day on Ulswater Mere."
Whilst the woman spoke, Tamar looked to her and then from her, but not a
word did she utter.
"Do you mind me?" said the gipsy; "I have known you long, aye very long.
You were very small when I brought you to this place. I did well for you
then. Are you grateful?"
Tamar now did turn and look at her, and looked eagerly, and carefully,
and intently on her dark and weather-beaten countenance.
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