“Of course, Ursula; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which the gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to any of their companions who may be behind, as to the route they have taken. The gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest for me, Ursula.”
“Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?”
“Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before.”
“And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?”
“Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?”
“What’s the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?”
“I don’t know,” said I; “it’s odd enough that I have asked that question of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and they always told me that they did not know.”
“No more they did, brother; there’s only one person in England that knows, and that’s myself—the name for a leaf is patteran. Now there are two that knows it—the other is yourself.”
“Dear me, Ursula, how very strange! I am much obliged to you. I think I never saw you look so pretty as you do now; but who told you?”
“My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she was in a good humour, which she very seldom was, and no one has a better right to know than yourself,