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.
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