was like a draught from a Spirit's fountain, and filled the heart with
new youth and the blood with a rapturous delight; the leaves--the
green, green leaves of spring--were quivering on the trees, among
which the happy birds fluttered and breathed the gladness of their
souls in song. While the dewdrops that--

"strewed
A baptism o'er the flowers"--

gave back in their million mirrors the reflected smiles of the
cloudless and rejoicing sun.

"Nature," said the gypsy, "has bestowed on her children a gorgeous
present in such a morning."

"True," said the youth; "and you, of us two, perhaps only deserve it;
as for me, when I think of the long road of dust, heat, and toil, that
lies before me, I could almost wish to stop here and ask an admission
into the gypsy's tents."

"You could not do a wiser thing!" said the gypsy, gravely.

"But fate leaves me no choice," continued the youth, as seriously as
if he were in earnest; "and I must quit you immediately after I have a
second time tasted of your hospitable fare."

"If it must be so," answered the gypsy, "I will see you, at least, a
mile or two on your road." The youth thanked him for a promise which
his curiosity made acceptable, and they turned once more to the
caravan.