They were cantering toward the corner where the fields joined, and suddenly he was aware that he could no more hold the beast than if a steam-engine had been under him. Straight at the linhay Hotspur dashed, and Summerhay thought: “My God! He’ll kill himself!” Straight at the old stone linhay, covered by the great ivy bush. Right at it – into it! Summerhay ducked his head. Not low enough – the ivy concealed a beam! A sickening crash! Torn backward out of the saddle, he fell on his back in a pool of leaves and mud. And the horse, slithering round the linhay walls, checked in his own length, unhurt, snorting, frightened, came out, turning his wild eyes on his master, who never stirred, then trotted back into the field, throwing up his head.
X
When, at her words, Summerhay went out of the room, Gyp’s heart sank. All the morning she had tried so hard to keep back her despairing jealousy, and now at the first reminder had broken down again. It was beyond her strength! To live day after day knowing that he, up in London, was either seeing that girl or painfully abstaining from seeing her! And then, when he returned, to be to him just what she had been, to show nothing – would it ever be possible? Hardest to bear was what seemed to her the falsity of his words, maintaining that he still really loved her. If he did, how could he hesitate one second? Would not the very thought of the girl be abhorrent to him? He would have shown that, not merely said it among other wild things. Words were no use when they contradicted action. She, who loved with every bit of her, could not grasp that a man can really love and want one woman and yet, at the same time, be attracted by another.
That sudden fearful impulse of the morning to make away with herself and end it for them both recurred so vaguely that it hardly counted in her struggles; the conflict centred now round the question whether life would be less utterly miserable if she withdrew from him and went back to Mildenham. Life without him? That was impossible! Life with him? Just as impossible, it seemed! There comes a point of mental anguish when the alternatives between which one swings, equally hopeless, become each so monstrous that the mind does not really work at all, but rushes helplessly from one to the other, no longer trying to decide, waiting on fate. So in Gyp that Sunday afternoon, doing little things all the time – mending a hole in one of his gloves, brushing and applying ointment to old Ossy, sorting bills and letters.
At five o’clock, knowing little Gyp must soon be back from her walk, and feeling unable to take part in gaiety, she went up and put on her hat. She turned from contemplation of her face with disgust. Since it was no longer the only face for him, what was the use of beauty? She slipped out by the side gate and went down toward the river. The lull was over; the south-west wind had begun sighing through the trees again, and gorgeous clouds were piled up from the horizon into the pale blue. She stood by the river watching its grey stream, edged by a scum of torn-off twigs and floating leaves, watched the wind shivering through the spoiled plume-branches of the willows. And, standing there, she had a sudden longing for her father; he alone could help her – just a little – by his quietness, and his love, by his mere presence.
She turned away and went up the lane again, avoiding the inn and the riverside houses, walking slowly, her head down. And a thought came, her first hopeful thought. Could they not travel – go round the world? Would he give up his work for that – that chance to break the spell? Dared she propose it? But would even that be anything more than a putting-off? If she was not enough for him now, would she not be still less, if his work were cut away? Still, it was a gleam, a gleam in the blackness. She came in at the far end of the fields they called “the wild.” A rose-leaf hue tinged the white cloud-banks, which towered away to the east beyond the river; and peeping over that mountain-top was the moon, fleecy and unsubstantial in the flax-blue sky. It was one of nature’s moments of wild colour. The oak-trees above the hedgerows had not lost their leaves, and in the darting, rain-washed light from the setting sun, had a sheen of old gold with heart of ivy-green; the hail-stripped beeches flamed with copper; the russet tufts of the ash-trees glowed. And past Gyp, a single leaf blown off, went soaring, turning over and over, going up on the rising wind, up – up, higher – higher into the sky, till it was lost – away.
The rain had drenched the long grass, and she turned back. At the gate beside the linhay, a horse was standing. It whinnied. Hotspur, saddled, bridled, with no rider! Why? Where – then? Hastily she undid the latch, ran through, and saw Summerhay lying in the mud – on his back, with eyes wide-open, his forehead and hair all blood. Some leaves had dropped on him. God! O God! His eyes had no sight, his lips no breath; his heart did not beat; the leaves had dropped even on his face – in the blood on his poor head. Gyp raised him – stiffened, cold as ice! She gave one cry, and fell, embracing his dead, stiffened body with all her strength, kissing his lips, his eyes, his broken forehead; clasping, warming him, trying to pass life into him; till, at last, she, too, lay still, her lips on his cold lips, her body on his cold body in the mud and the fallen leaves, while the wind crept and rustled in the ivy, and went over with the scent of rain. Close by, the horse, uneasy, put his head down and sniffed at her, then, backing away, neighed, and broke into a wild gallop round the field…
Old Pettance, waiting for Summerhay’s return to stable-up for the night, heard that distant neigh and went to the garden gate, screwing up his little eyes against the sunset. He could see a loose horse galloping down there in “the wild,” where no horse should be, and thinking: “There now; that artful devil’s broke away from the guv’nor! Now I’ll ‘ave to ketch ‘im!” he went back, got some oats, and set forth at the best gait of his stiff-jointed feet. The old horseman characteristically did not think of accidents. The guv’nor had got off, no doubt, to unhitch that heavy gate – the one you had to lift. That ‘orse – he was a masterpiece of mischief! His difference with the animal still rankled in a mind that did not easily forgive.
Half an hour later, he entered the lighted kitchen shaking and gasping, tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks into the corners of his gargoyle’s mouth, and panted out:
“O, my Gord! Fetch the farmer – fetch an ‘urdle! O my Gord! Betty, you and cook – I can’t get ‘er off him. She don’t speak. I felt her – all cold. Come on, you sluts – quick! O my Gord! The poor guv’nor! That ‘orse must ‘a’ galloped into the linhay and killed him. I’ve see’d the marks on the devil’s shoulder where he rubbed it scrapin’ round the wall. Come on – come on! Fetch an ‘urdle or she’ll die there on him in the mud. Put the child to bed and get the doctor, and send a wire to London, to the major, to come sharp. Oh, blarst you all – keep your ‘eads! What’s the good o’ howlin’ and blubberin’!”
In the whispering corner of those fields, light from a lantern and the moon fell on the old stone linhay, on the ivy and the broken gate, on the mud, the golden leaves, and the two quiet bodies clasped together. Gyp’s consciousness had flown; there seemed no difference between them. And presently, over the rushy grass, a procession moved back in the wind and the moonlight – two hurdles, two men carrying one, two women and a man the other, and, behind, old Pettance and the horse.
XI
When Gyp recovered a consciousness, whose flight had been mercifully renewed with morphia, she was in her bed, and her first drowsy movement was toward her mate. With eyes still closed, she turned, as she was wont, and put out her hand to touch him before she dozed off again. There was no warmth, no substance; through her mind, still away in the mists of morphia, the thoughts passed vague and lonely: ‘Ah, yes, in London!’ And she turned on her back. London! Something – something up there! She opened her eyes. So the fire had kept in all night! Someone was in a chair there, or – was she dreaming! And suddenly, without knowing why, she began breathing hurriedly in little half-sobbing gasps. The figure moved, turned her face in the firelight. Betty! Gyp closed her eyes. An icy sweat had broken out all over her. A dream! In a whisper, she said:
“Betty!”
The muffled answer came.
“Yes, my darlin’.”
“What is it?”
No answer; then a half-choked, “Don’t ‘ee think – don’t ‘ee think! Your Daddy’ll be here directly, my sweetie!”
Gyp’s eyes, wide open, passed from the firelight and that rocking figure to the little chink of light that was hardly light as yet, coming in at one corner of the curtain. She was remembering. Her tongue stole out and passed over her lips; beneath the bedclothes she folded both her hands tight across her heart. Then she was not dead with him – not dead! Not gone back with him into the ground – not – And suddenly there flickered in her a flame of maniacal hatred. They were keeping her alive! A writhing smile forced its way up on to her parched lips.
“Betty, I’m so thirsty – so thirsty. Get me a cup of tea.”
The stout form heaved itself from the chair and came toward the bed.
“Yes, my lovey, at once. It’ll do you good. That’s a brave girl.”
“Yes.”
The moment the door clicked to, Gyp sprang up. Her veins throbbed; her whole soul was alive with cunning. She ran to the wardrobe, seized her long fur coat, slipped her bare feet into her slippers, wound a piece of lace round her head, and opened the door. All dark and quiet! Holding her breath, stifling the sound of her feet, she glided down the stairs, slipped back the chain of the front door, opened it, and fled. Like a shadow she passed across the grass, out of the garden gate, down the road under the black dripping trees. The beginning of light was mixing its grey hue into the darkness; she could just see her feet among the puddles on the road. She heard the grinding and whirring of a motor-car on its top gear approaching up the hill, and cowered away against the hedge. Its light came searching along, picking out with a mysterious momentary brightness the bushes and tree-trunks, making the wet road gleam. Gyp saw the chauffeur turn his head back at her, then the car’s body passed up into darkness, and its tail-light was all that was left to see. Perhaps that car was going to the Red House with her father, the doctor, somebody, helping to keep her alive! The maniacal hate flared up in her again; she flew on. The light grew; a man with a dog came out of a gate she had passed, and called “Hallo!” She did not turn her head. She had lost her slippers, and ran with bare feet, unconscious of stones, or the torn-off branches strewing the road, making for the lane that ran right down to the river, a little to the left of the inn, the lane of yesterday, where the bank was free.
She turned into the lane; dimly, a hundred or more yards away, she could see the willows, the width of lighter grey that was the river. The river – “Away, my rolling river!” – the river – and the happiest hours of all her life! If he were anywhere, she would find him there, where he had sung, and lain with his head on her breast, and swum and splashed about her; where she had dreamed, and seen beauty, and loved him so! She reached the bank. Cold and grey and silent, swifter than yesterday, the stream was flowing by, its dim far shore brightening slowly in the first break of dawn. And Gyp stood motionless, drawing her breath in gasps after her long run; her knees trembled; gave way. She sat down on the wet grass, clasping her arms round her drawn-up legs, rocking herself to and fro, and her loosened hair fell over her face. The blood beat in her ears; her heart felt suffocated; all her body seemed on fire, yet numb. She sat, moving her head up and down – as the head of one moves that is gasping her last – waiting for breath – breath and strength to let go life, to slip down into the grey water. And that queer apartness from self, which is the property of fever, came on her, so that she seemed to see herself sitting there, waiting, and thought: ‘I shall see myself dead, floating among the reeds. I shall see the birds wondering above me!’ And, suddenly, she broke into a storm of dry sobbing, and all things vanished from her, save just the rocking of her body, the gasping of her breath, and the sound of it in her ears. Her boy – her boy – and his poor hair! “Away, my rolling river!” Swaying over, she lay face down, clasping at the wet grass and the earth.
The sun rose, laid a pale bright streak along the water, and hid himself again. A robin twittered in the willows; a leaf fell on her bare ankle.
Winton, who had been hunting on Saturday, had returned to town on Sunday by the evening tram, and gone straight to his club for some supper. There falling asleep over his cigar, he had to be awakened when they desired to close the club for the night. It was past two when he reached Bury Street and found a telegram.
“Something dreadful happened to Mr. Summerhay. Come quick. – BETTY.”
Never had he so cursed the loss of his hand as during the time that followed, when Markey had to dress, help his master, pack bags, and fetch a taxi equipped for so long a journey. At half-past three they started. The whole way down, Winton, wrapped in his fur coat, sat a little forward on his seat, ready to put his head through the window and direct the driver. It was a wild night, and he would not let Markey, whose chest was not strong, go outside to act as guide. Twice that silent one, impelled by feelings too strong even for his respectful taciturnity, had spoken.
“That’ll be bad for Miss Gyp, sir.”
“Bad, yes – terrible.”
And later:
“D’you think it means he’s dead, sir?”
Winton answered sombrely:
“God knows, Markey! We must hope for the best.”
Dead! Could Fate be cruel enough to deal one so soft and loving such a blow? And he kept saying to himself: “Courage. Be ready for the worst. Be ready.”
But the figures of Betty and a maid at the open garden gate, in the breaking darkness, standing there wringing their hands, were too much for his stoicism. Leaping out, he cried:
“What is it, woman? Quick!”
“Oh, sir! My dear’s gone. I left her a moment to get her a cup of tea. And she’s run out in the cold!”
Winton stood for two seconds as if turned to stone. Then, taking Betty by the shoulder, he asked quietly:
“What happened to HIM?”
Betty could not answer, but the maid said:
“The horse killed him at that linhay, sir, down in ‘the wild.’ And the mistress was unconscious till quarter of an hour ago.”
“Which way did she go?”
“Out here, sir; the door and the gate was open – can’t tell which way.”
Through Winton flashed one dreadful thought: The river!
“Turn the cab round! Stay in, Markey! Betty and you, girl, go down to ‘the wild,’ and search there at once. Yes? What is it?”
The driver was leaning out.
“As we came up the hill, sir, I see a lady or something in a long dark coat with white on her head, against the hedge.”
“Right! Drive down again sharp, and use your eyes.”
At such moments, thought is impossible, and a feverish use of every sense takes its place. But of thought there was no need, for the gardens of villas and the inn blocked the river at all but one spot. Winton stopped the car where the narrow lane branched down to the bank, and jumping out, ran. By instinct he ran silently on the grass edge, and Markey, imitating, ran behind. When he came in sight of a black shape lying on the bank, he suffered a moment of intense agony, for he thought it was just a dark garment thrown away. Then he saw it move, and, holding up his hand for Markey to stand still, walked on alone, tiptoeing in the grass, his heart swelling with a sort of rapture. Stealthily moving round between that prostrate figure and the water, he knelt down and said, as best he could, for the husk in his throat:
“My darling!”
Gyp raised her head and stared at him. Her white face, with eyes unnaturally dark and large, and hair falling all over it, was strange to him – the face of grief itself, stripped of the wrappings of form. And he knew not what to do, how to help or comfort, how to save. He could see so clearly in her eyes the look of a wild animal at the moment of its capture, and instinct made him say:
“I lost her just as cruelly, Gyp.”
He saw the words reach her brain, and that wild look waver. Stretching out his arm, he drew her close to him till her cheek was against his, her shaking body against him, and kept murmuring:
“For my sake, Gyp; for my sake!”
When, with Markey’s aid, he had got her to the cab, they took her, not back to the house, but to the inn. She was in high fever, and soon delirious. By noon, Aunt Rosamund and Mrs. Markey, summoned by telegram, had arrived; and the whole inn was taken lest there should be any noise to disturb her.
At five o’clock, Winton was summoned downstairs to the little so-called reading-room. A tall woman was standing at the window, shading her eyes with the back of a gloved hand. Though they had lived so long within ten miles of each other he only knew Lady Summerhay by sight, and he waited for the poor woman to speak first. She said in a low voice:
“There is nothing to say; only, I thought I must see you. How is she?”
“Delirious.”
They stood in silence a full minute, before she whispered:
“My poor boy! Did you see him – his forehead?” Her lips quivered. “I will take him back home.” And tears rolled, one after the other, slowly down her flushed face under her veil. Poor woman! Poor woman! She had turned to the window, passing her handkerchief up under the veil, staring out at the little strip of darkening lawn, and Winton, too, stared out into that mournful daylight. At last, he said:
“I will send you all his things, except – except anything that might help my poor girl.”
She turned quickly.
“And so it’s ended like this! Major Winton, is there anything behind – were they really happy?”
Winton looked straight at her and answered:
“Ah, too happy!”
Without a quiver, he met those tear-darkened, dilated eyes straining at his; with a heavy sigh, she once more turned away, and, brushing her handkerchief across her face, drew down her veil.
It was not true – he knew from the mutterings of Gyp’s fever – but no one, not even Summerhay’s mother, should hear a whisper if he could help it. At the door, he murmured:
“I don’t know whether my girl will get through, or what she will do after. When Fate hits, she hits too hard. And you! Good-bye.”
Lady Summerhay pressed his outstretched hand.
“Good-bye,” she said, in a strangled voice. “I wish you – good-bye.” Then, turning abruptly, she hastened away.
Winton went back to his guardianship upstairs.
In the days that followed, when Gyp, robbed of memory, hung between life and death, Winton hardly left her room, that low room with creepered windows whence the river could be seen, gliding down under the pale November sunshine or black beneath the stars. He would watch it, fascinated, as one sometimes watches the relentless sea. He had snatched her as by a miracle from that snaky river.
He had refused to have a nurse. Aunt Rosamund and Mrs. Markey were skilled in sickness, and he could not bear that a strange person should listen to those delirious mutterings. His own part of the nursing was just to sit there and keep her secrets from the others – if he could. And he grudged every minute away from his post. He would stay for hours, with eyes fixed on her face. No one could supply so well as he just that coherent thread of the familiar, by which the fevered, without knowing it, perhaps find their way a little in the dark mazes where they wander. And he would think of her as she used to be – well and happy – adopting unconsciously the methods of those mental and other scientists whom he looked upon as quacks.
He was astonished by the number of inquiries, even people whom he had considered enemies left cards or sent their servants, forcing him to the conclusion that people of position are obliged to reserve their human kindness for those as good as dead. But the small folk touched him daily by their genuine concern for her whose grace and softness had won their hearts. One morning he received a letter forwarded from Bury Street.
“DEAR MAJOR WINTON,
“I have read a paragraph in the paper about poor Mr. Summerhay’s death. And, oh, I feel so sorry for her! She was so good to me; I do feel it most dreadfully. If you think she would like to know how we all feel for her, you would tell her, wouldn’t you? I do think it’s cruel.
“Very faithfully yours,“DAPHNE WING.”
So they knew Summerhay’s name – he had not somehow expected that. He did not answer, not knowing what to say.
During those days of fever, the hardest thing to bear was the sound of her rapid whisperings and mutterings – incoherent phrases that said so little and told so much. Sometimes he would cover his ears, to avoid hearing of that long stress of mind at which he had now and then glimpsed. Of the actual tragedy, her wandering spirit did not seem conscious; her lips were always telling the depth of her love, always repeating the dread of losing his; except when they would give a whispering laugh, uncanny and enchanting, as at some gleam of perfect happiness. Those little laughs were worst of all to hear; they never failed to bring tears into his eyes. But he drew a certain gruesome comfort from the conclusion slowly forced on him, that Summerhay’s tragic death had cut short a situation which might have had an even more tragic issue. One night in the big chair at the side of her bed, he woke from a doze to see her eyes fixed on him. They were different; they saw, were her own eyes again. Her lips moved.
“Dad.”
“Yes, my pet.”
“I remember everything.”
At that dreadful little saying, Winton leaned forward and put his lips to her hand, that lay outside the clothes.
“Where is he buried?”
“At Widrington.”
“Yes.”
It was rather a sigh than a word and, raising his head, Winton saw her eyes closed again. Now that the fever had gone, the white transparency of her cheeks and forehead against the dark lashes and hair was too startling. Was it a living face, or was its beauty that of death?
He bent over. She was breathing – asleep.
XII
The return to Mildenham was made by easy stages nearly two months after Summerhay’s death, on New Year’s day – Mildenham, dark, smelling the same, full of ghosts of the days before love began. For little Gyp, more than five years old now, and beginning to understand life, this was the pleasantest home yet. In watching her becoming the spirit of the place, as she herself had been when a child, Gyp found rest at times, a little rest. She had not picked up much strength, was shadowy as yet, and if her face was taken unawares, it was the saddest face one could see. Her chief preoccupation was not being taken unawares. Alas! To Winton, her smile was even sadder. He was at his wits’ end about her that winter and spring. She obviously made the utmost effort to keep up, and there was nothing to do but watch and wait. No use to force the pace. Time alone could heal – perhaps. Meanwhile, he turned to little Gyp, so that they became more or less inseparable.
Spring came and passed. Physically, Gyp grew strong again, but since their return to Mildenham, she had never once gone outside the garden, never once spoken of The Red House, never once of Summerhay. Winton had hoped that warmth and sunlight would bring some life to her spirit, but it did not seem to. Not that she cherished her grief, appeared, rather, to do all in her power to forget and mask it. She only had what used to be called a broken heart. Nothing to be done. Little Gyp, who had been told that “Baryn” had gone away for ever, and that she must “never speak of him for fear of making Mum sad,” would sometimes stand and watch her mother with puzzled gravity. She once remarked uncannily to Winton:
“Mum doesn’t live with us, Grandy; she lives away somewhere, I think. Is it with Baryn?”
Winton stared, and answered:
“Perhaps it is, sweetheart; but don’t say that to anybody but me. Don’t ever talk of Baryn to anyone else.”
“Yes, I know; but where is he, Grandy?”
What could Winton answer? Some imbecility with the words “very far” in it; for he had not courage to broach the question of death, that mystery so hopelessly beyond the grasp of children, and of himself – and others.
He rode a great deal with the child, who, like her mother before her, was never so happy as in the saddle; but to Gyp he did not dare suggest it. She never spoke of horses, never went to the stables, passed all the days doing little things about the house, gardening, and sitting at her piano, sometimes playing a little, sometimes merely looking at the keys, her hands clasped in her lap. This was early in the fateful summer, before any as yet felt the world-tremors, or saw the Veil of the Temple rending and the darkness beginning to gather. Winton had no vision of the coif above the dark eyes of his loved one, nor of himself in a strange brown garb, calling out old familiar words over barrack-squares. He often thought: ‘If only she had something to take her out of herself!’
In June he took his courage in both hands and proposed a visit to London. To his surprise, she acquiesced without hesitation. They went up in Whit-week. While they were passing Widrington, he forced himself to an unnatural spurt of talk; and it was not till fully quarter of an hour later that, glancing stealthily round his paper, he saw her sitting motionless, her face turned to the fields and tears rolling down it. And he dared not speak, dared not try to comfort her. She made no sound, the muscles of her face no movement; only, those tears kept rolling down. And, behind his paper, Winton’s eyes narrowed and retreated; his face hardened till the skin seemed tight drawn over the bones, and every inch of him quivered.
The usual route from the station to Bury Street was “up,” and the cab went by narrow by-streets, town lanes where the misery of the world is on show, where ill-looking men, draggled and over-driven women, and the jaunty ghosts of little children in gutters and on doorsteps proclaim, by every feature of their clay-coloured faces and every movement of their unfed bodies, the post-datement of the millennium; where the lean and smutted houses have a look of dissolution indefinitely put off, and there is no more trace of beauty than in a sewer. Gyp, leaning forward, looked out, as one does after a long sea voyage; Winton felt her hand slip into his and squeeze it hard.
That evening after dinner – in the room he had furnished for her mother, where the satinwood chairs, the little Jacobean bureau, the old brass candelabra were still much as they had been just on thirty years ago – she said:
“Dad, I’ve been thinking. Would you mind if I could make a sort of home at Mildenham where poor children could come to stay and get good air and food? There are such thousands of them.”
Strangely moved by this, the first wish he had heard her express since the tragedy, Winton took her hand, and, looking at it as if for answer to his question, said:
“My dear, are, you strong enough?”
“Quite. There’s nothing wrong with me now except here.” She drew his hand to her and pressed it against her heart. “What’s given, one can’t get back. I can’t help it; I would if I could. It’s been so dreadful for you. I’m so sorry.” Winton made an unintelligible sound, and she went on: “If I had them to see after, I shouldn’t be able to think so much; the more I had to do the better. Good for our gipsy-bird, too, to have them there. I should like to begin it at once.”
Winton nodded. Anything that she felt could do her good – anything!
“Yes, yes,” he said; “I quite see – you could use the two old cottages to start with, and we can easily run up anything you want.”
“Only let me do it all, won’t you?”
At that touch of her old self, Winton smiled. She should do everything, pay for everything, bring a whole street of children down, if it would give her any comfort!
“Rosamund’ll help you find ‘em,” he muttered. “She’s first-rate at all that sort of thing.” Then, looking at her fixedly, he added: “Courage, my soul; it’ll all come back some day.”
Gyp forced herself to smile. Watching her, he understood only too well the child’s saying: “Mum lives away somewhere, I think.”
Suddenly, she said, very low:
“And yet I wouldn’t have been without it.”
She was sitting, her hands clasped in her lap, two red spots high in her cheeks, her eyes shining strangely, the faint smile still on her lips. And Winton, staring with narrowed eyes, thought: ‘Love! Beyond measure – beyond death – it nearly kills. But one wouldn’t have been without it. Why?’
Three days later, leaving Gyp with his sister, he went back to Mildenham to start the necessary alterations in the cottages. He had told no one he was coming, and walked up from the station on a perfect June day, bright and hot. When he turned through the drive gate, into the beech-tree avenue, the leaf-shadows were thick on the ground, with golden gleams of the invincible sunlight thrusting their way through. The grey boles, the vivid green leaves, those glistening sun-shafts through the shade entranced him, coming from the dusty road. Down in the very middle of the avenue, a small, white figure was standing, as if looking out for him. He heard a shrill shout.
“Oh, Grandy, you’ve come back – you’ve come back! What FUN!”
Winton took her curls in his hand, and, looking into her face, said:
“Well, my gipsy-bird, will you give me one of these?”
Little Gyp looked at him with flying eyes, and, hugging his legs, answered furiously:
“Yes; because I love you. PULL!”