see her; and we didn't eat much the day after, either. She used to feed
us--I wish I could eat like that now! I can see her brown eyes following
us about, full of fire, but soft and kind, too. She had a great temper,
they said, but everybody liked her, and some loved her. She'd had one
girl, but she died of consumption, got camping out in bad weather. Aunt
Cynthy--that was what we called her, her name being Cynthia--never got
over her girl's death. She blamed herself for it. She had had those
fits of going back to the open-for weeks at a time. The girl oughtn't to
have been taken to camp out. She was never strong, and it was the wrong
place and the wrong time of year--all right in August and all wrong in
October.

"Well, always after her girl's death Aunt Cynthy was as I knew her,
being good to us youngsters as no one else ever was, or could be.
Her tea-table was a sight; and the rest of the meals were banquets.
The first time I ever ate hedgehog was at her place. A little while ago,
just before you came, I thought of her. A hedgehog crossed the path
here, and it brought those days back to me--Charley Long and Aunt Cynthy
and all. Yes, the first time I ever ate hedgehog; was in Aunt Cynthy's
house. Hi-yi, as old Tekewani says, but it was good!"

"What is the Romany word for hedgehog?" Fleda asked in a low tone.

"Hotchewitchi," he replied instantly. "That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is right," she answered, and her eyes had a far-away look, but
there was a kind of trouble at her mouth.

"Do you speak Romany?" she added a little breathlessly.