'What do you want to see me for?' she said gently but rather coldly.
The woman lifted her face—she was not quite as tall as mamma, and looked at her closely, but not rudely. She was older than I had somehow expected. Her skin was very brown, her hair jet-black, her eyes not quite as dark as one imagines a gypsy's must be; I thought to myself that perhaps the very tanned complexion made them seem lighter. She was wrinkled and weather-beaten, but not by any means ugly, though not beautiful, except her teeth, which were extremely white and even.
'Yes, my lady,' she said, 'I did want to see you. I have come far to do so.'
Her accent was peculiar, her voice low, and she talked slowly, almost as if using a foreign language.
'How did you get through the gates?' mamma asked.
The answer was a shake of the head.
'I have not passed through them—not to-day,' she said. 'There are ways—when one is in earnest.'
'I hope you have not broken through the hedges, or over the walls,' said mamma, rather uneasily.
Another shake of the head.
'No, no—have no fear; I have done no harm,' was the reply, and somehow mamma seemed as if she did not like to say any more about it.