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 'Now yours must be a very pleasant life,' said the cultivator, 'sitting as you do on a dyke all day and singing just what comes into your head. Have yon been at it long, you two—gipsies?'

'Ah!' lowed the Bull from his byre. 'That's all the thanks you will ever get from men, brother,'

'No. We have only just begun it,' said the Girl; 'but we are going to keep to it as long as we live. Are we not, Leo?'

'Yes,' said he, and they went away hand-in-hand.

'You can sing beautifully, Leo,' said she, as a wife will to her husband.

'What were you doing?' said he,

'I was talking to the mother and the babies,' she said, 'You would not understand the little things that make us women laugh.'

'And—and I am to go on with this—this gipsy-work?' said Leo.

'Yes, dear, and I will help you.'

There is no written record of the life of Leo and of the Girl, so we cannot tell how Leo took to his new employment which he detested. We are only sure that the Girl loved him when and wherever he sang; even when, after the song was done, she went round with the equivalent of a tambourine, and collected the pence for the daily bread. There were times too when it was Leo's very hard task to console the Girl for the indignity of horrible praise that people gave him and her—for the silly wagging peacock feathers that they stuck in his cap, and the buttons and pieces of cloth that they sewed on his coat. Woman-like, she could advise and help to the end, but the meanness of the means revolted.