The Gypsy and the Widow by Juliet Chastain Page B

farm with Mother,” he said conversationally to a boy of about eight years, “and I was helping her carry the apples in my basket.”
    “Where is it?” said the other.
    Nash pointed at his mother.
    “I thought you were helping her,” said the boy. “But she is carrying your basket as well as her own.”
    Nash ran to Joanna and took the small basket. “See, I am helping.”
    Two girls joined the boy and all three, each trying to talk louder than the others, told Nash in what manner they assisted their father.
    “I have no father anymore,” said Nash. “He died a month ago.”
    “Why don’t you wear white then?” asked the bigger of the girls. “When our mother died we wore white and we didn’t go walking anywhere as you are doing. We stayed about our vardo and we all cried and cried and Dadro cried most of all.”
    “Well,” said Nash, “that is because it was your mother who died and that is very sad, but we wear black because my father died and that was not so sad.”
    Joanna winced at this honest assessment, but before she could decide whether she should intervene, Tem, whom she had watched so longingly from the window, came over to them and nodded a greeting at her before gently removing the heavy baskets from her aching hands.
    “Allow me,” he said. “They look heavy.”
    “They are,” she admitted, rubbing her sore palms together.
    “I will return them to you whenever you wish.” He smiled at her. “Even though I am a Gypsy.”
    She felt herself blushing. Everyone said Gypsies were thieves though she did not believe it.
    “I…I didn’t think otherwise, Sir,” she stammered as they began to walk down the lane, trailing behind the others while the children ran here and there.
    He laughed. “I thought every English person believes that Gypsies are thieves.”
    “Not I,” she said, and thinking it best to change the subject she went on. “I understand you are widowed. I offer my sympathy.”
    He nodded. “And I extend mine to you for your recent loss.”
    She inclined her head and murmured, “Thank you.” She wanted to say that she felt no sorrow over the death of her husband, that she had finished mourning for him years ago when he was lost to drink and dissipation.
    “I had the fortune to marry a fine woman. She was a good wife to me and good mother to our children.”
    “I am so sorry,” she said and could not help adding, “I did not share your good fortune in my husband, so his loss weighs less heavily upon me.”
    He sighed. “I don’t know which is the worst: to have loved and been loved and lost or to have not loved and been loved at all.”
    She shook her head not knowing what to say and thinking with some bitterness that she had never really both loved and been loved.
    They stopped walking as the children came running about them.
    Joanna asked, “Those three are your children?
    “Yes, they are mine and the rest are my nephews or nieces or cousins. Let’s see, here’s Florica.” He indicated the pretty child of about six who was wearing a pink skirt, green blouse, and gold earrings. He set the baskets on the ground and picked up the smaller girl of perhaps four years, dressed in rather grimy yellow. “And here’s my little Eleanor.” He lifted her above his head laughing up at her and turning about. Then he set her gently on her feet and watched as she scampered off.
    Several children now swarmed about him, careful not to upset the baskets. Some cried, “Me, me” while others called out in a language she did not understand.
    One by one he picked each child up and held them in the air, laughing at each one, acting as though they weighed nothing, and as though he had all the time in the world to entertain them. Nash was in the midst of the children, also begging to be picked up, and the Gypsy bent and picked him up and held him above his head, Nash screaming with excitement and joy.
    Joanna felt tears come to her eyes. Poor Nash had never before experienced this