"I'll tell you all about it," he answered. "I'm the parson of this parish, and therefore you're my own people, you see."
"We don't go to your church, parson," said one of them.
"I don't care; you're my own people, for all that, and I want your help."
"Well, what's the matter? Who's cow's dead?" said the same man.
"This evening," returned my father, "one of my children is missing; and a woman who might be one of your clan,—mind, I say might be; I don't know, and I mean no offence,—but such a woman was seen about the place. All I want is the child, and if I don't find her, I shall have to raise the county. I should be very sorry to disturb you; but I am afraid, in that case, whether the woman be one of you or not, the place will be too hot for you. I'm no enemy to honest gypsies; but you know there is a set of tramps that call themselves gypsies, who are nothing of the sort,—only thieves. Tell me what I had better do to find my child. You know all about such things."
The men turned to each other, and began talking in undertones, and in a language of which what my father heard he could not understand. At length the spokesman of the party addressed him again.
"We'll give you our word, sir, if that will satisfy you," he said, more respectfully than he had spoken before, "to send the child home directly if any one should bring her to our camp. That's all we can say."
My father saw that his best chance lay in accepting the offer.
"Thank you," he said. "Perhaps I may have an opportunity of serving you some day."
They in their turn thanked him politely enough, and my father and Sim left the camp.