A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her hand she held a bulrush.
“All alone here, brother?” said the girl, as I looked up; “all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?”
“Why do you call me brother?” said I; “I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!”
“Don’t be afraid, brother, you are no Roman—Roman indeed, you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn’t know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be very sorry to have you for a brother.”
“Then you don’t like me?”
“Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?”
“What’s the use of talking to me in that un-Christian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?”
“Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle.”
“Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn’t it well mended?”
“Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it’s only fit to be played at football with.”