“Perdita,” was the answer.
“Perdita!” repeated the gipsy. “That is a strange name. We have singular names amongst our race: but I never before heard so remarkable a one as that which you bear. What does it mean?”
“Have names any meaning at all?” demanded Perdita’s mother, in a tone of impatience. “But, come, daughter—let us thank this good woman, and be off!”
The gipsy was however again rocking herself to and fro before the fire, and seemed to have relapsed into her profound reverie, save that this time she did not give audible utterance to her musings. She was however so much absorbed in thought that she did not hear the thanks that were tendered by the wanderers, nor mark their departure.
CHAPTER CXXVIII.
THE JOURNEY CONTINUED AND CONCLUDED.
Perdita and her mother exchanged not a word until they reached the high road once more; but when their faces were again turned towards London, the latter exclaimed in a tone of chuckling triumph, “’Twas a lucky chance which threw us in with that gipsy!”
“Yes, mother—as far as obtaining a good meal was concerned,” replied Perdita.
“Silly child! it was the old crone’s talk that elicited the remark which I just made. Did you not hear the strange facts she suffered to ooze out in her idiotic musings? Did nothing strike you——”
“Yes: her description of a young man of such divine beauty made so strong an impression upon me, that my very veins appeared to run with lightning,” interrupted Perdita.
“Ah!” cried her mother, evidently struck by a sudden thought: “you were pleased with her allusion to that handsome young gentleman? Well, Perdita—trust me when I declare emphatically that this same young gentleman shall sue at your feet for those favours which unasked you would this moment bestow upon him!”