CHAPTER XVI.
OUR GIPSY
"Leaping spirits bright as air,
Dancing heart untouched by care,
Sparkling eye and laughing brow,
And mirthful cheek of joyous glow."
In the spring Louis and Archie were to go to New York and enter college. The squire, who was dying by inches of the inaction at Sunset Hall, resolved to accompany them; and Lizzie, rousing herself from her indolence, also resolved to accompany them. Doctor Wiseman intended sending Minnette to boarding-school, and Miss Hagar offered to send Celeste, likewise, if she would go; but Celeste pleaded to remain and go to the Sisters; and as it happened to be just what Miss Hagar wished, she consented.
The evening before that fixed for the departure of the boys was spent by them at the Valley Cottage. Archie was in unusually boisterous spirits, and laughed till he made the house ring. Louis, on the contrary, was silent and grave, thinking sadly of leaving home and of parting with his friends.
Celeste, who always caught her tone from those around her, was one moment all smiles at one gay sally of Archie's, and the next sighing softly as her eye fell upon the grief-bowed young head of Louis. Miss Hagar sat by the fire knitting, as stiff, and solemn, and grave as usual.
"It will be a year – twelve whole months – before we all meet again," said Louis, with a sigh.
"Oh, dear!" said Celeste, her eyes filling with tears; "it will be so lonesome. It seems to me the time will never pass."
"Oh, it will pass – never fear," said Archie, in the confident tone of one who knows he is asserting a fact; "and we'll come back young collegians – decidedly fast young men —Mirabile dictu– that's Latin – and I'll marry you, sis. Oh, I forgot Gipsy."
Here Archie's face suddenly fell to a formidable length, and he heaved a sigh that would have inflated a balloon.
"Oh, if Gipsy were here it wouldn't be a bit lonesome – I mean, not so much. Minnette's going away, too," said Celeste, sadly.
"Well, you needn't care for her, I'm sure," said Archie, gruffly. "She's as sharp as a bottle of cayenne pepper, and as sour as an unripe crab-apple. For my part, I'm glad to be out of the way of her dagger-tongue."
"Oh, Archie, please don't," said Celeste, gently. "How do you know but she likes you now, after all?"
"Likes me? Oh, that's too good. Hold me, somebody, or I'll split!" exclaimed Archie, going off into an inextinguishable fit of laughter at the very idea.
Louis rose and went to the door; Celeste followed him, leaving Archie to recover from his laughter and expatiate to Miss Hagar on the pleasures and prospects he hoped to enjoy in Gotham.
It was a beautiful moonlight night. The bright May moon shed a shower of silvery glory over the cottage, and bathed them in its refulgent light.
"Oh, Louis, what is the matter?" said Celeste, laying her hand on his arm. "Are you so sorry for leaving home?"
"I don't care for that, Celeste; I am sorry to leave you."
"But it's only for a year. I will be here when you come back."
"Will you, Celeste?"
"Why, yes, Louis, of course I will."
"Oh, no, you won't, Celeste. There will be something here taller and more womanly, who will talk and act like a young lady, and whom I will call Miss Pearl; but the little, gentle Celeste will be here no longer."
"Well, won't it be the same with you?" said Celeste, with an arch smile. "Something will come back taller and more manly, who will talk and act like a young gentleman, and whom I must call Mr. Oranmore, I suppose. But the Louis who brings me pretty books, and calls me 'the Star of the Valley,' I will never see again."
"Oh, Celeste, you know better than that. Will you think of me sometimes when I am gone?"
"Oh, yes, always. What a strange question! Why, I never thought of asking you to think of me, though you are going among so many strangers, who will make you forget all your old friends."
"You know I couldn't forget any of my old friends, Celeste, much less you. I shall think of you, and Miss Hagar, and Mrs. Gower, and – yes, and poor Gipsy every day. See, I have brought you a parting gift, Celeste, for your celestial little neck."
So saying, he drew out a little gold chain and cross, and threw it over the graceful neck that bent to receive it.
"Oh, thank you, dear Louis. I shall prize your gift so much. How kind and thoughtful of you! I wish I had something to give you in return."
"One of your curls will do."
"Will it? Oh, then you shall have it."
So saying, she drew out a tiny pair of scissors and severed a long, shining ring of gold from her bright little head.
"Hallo! what's this? Exchanging true lovers' tokens, by all that's tender! Ha, ha, ha!" shouted Master Rivers, appearing suddenly, and roaring with laughter.
"Confound you!" muttered Louis, giving him a shake. "And now I must go and bid Miss Hagar good-bye. Archie, go off and bring the gig round. Celeste, stay here; I'll be with you again in a minute."
So saying, Louis entered the cottage, shook hands with the hoary spinster, who bade him be a good boy, and not bring back any city habits. Then going to the door, where Celeste still stood looking on her cross, and closing her eyes to force back the tears that were fast gathering in them, he took her in his arms and said:
"And now good-bye, little darling. Don't quite forget Louis."
"Oh, Louis," was all she could say, as she clung to his neck and sobbed on his shoulder.
He compressed his lips and resolutely unclasped her clinging arms; then pressing his lips to her fair brow, he leaped into the gig, seized the reins, and, in his excitement, dashed off, quite forgetting Archie, who had lingered to say good-bye to Celeste.
Archie rushed after him, shouting "Stop thief! stop thief!" until Louis, discovering his mistake, pulled up, and admitted that wronged and justly-indignant young gentleman.
"Now for Deep Dale, to bid good-bye to Minnette and Old Nick," said Archie, irreverently, "and then hie for Sunset Hall."
"Yes, poor Celeste," said Louis, with a sigh, evidently forgetting he had a companion; whereupon Archie again went into convulsions of laughter, kicking up his heels and snapping his fingers in an ectasy of delight. Louis found his example so contagious, that – after trying for a few moments to preserve his gravity – he, too, was forced to join in his uproarious mirth.
On their arrival at Deep Dale they found the doctor in his study. Louis bade him a formal farewell; and having learned that Minnette was in the parlor, he went down to seek her, accompanied by Archie.
She sat in her usual attitude, gazing intently out of the window at the cold moonlight. She looked up as they entered, and started violently as she perceived who were her visitors.
"Well, Minnette, we've come to bid you good-bye," said Archie, gayly, throwing his arms round her neck and imprinting a cousinly salute on her cheek. "Good-bye for twelve months, and then hie for home and a happy meeting. Louis, I leave you to make your adieux to Minnette, while I make mine to old Suse, down in the kitchen. Mind, Minnette, don't give him one of your curls, as I saw another little girl do awhile ago, unless he gives you a gold cross and chain in return for it – he gave her one." And with a mischievous laugh, Archie clattered down stairs, taking half the staircase at a bound.
She drew herself back and up; and the hand she had half extended to meet his was withdrawn, as, with a cold formal bow, she said:
"Farewell! I wish you a safe journey and a happy return."
"And nothing more? Oh, Minnette! Is it thus old friends, who have known each other from childhood, are to part? Just think, we may never meet again!"
"Do you care?" she asked, in a softened voice.
"Care! Of course I do. Won't you shake hands, Minnette! You're not half as sorry to let me go as little Celeste was."
"Oh, no; I don't lose so much. I have no books, nor flowers, nor visits, nor gold crosses to lose by your absence," she said, sarcastically – her face, that had softened for a moment, growing cold and hard at the mention of her name. "Good-bye Louis, and – I wish you all success and happiness."
The hand she extended was cold as ice. He pressed it between his, and gazed sadly into the clear, bright eyes that defiantly met his own.
"Come, Louis, don't stay there all night!" called Archie, impatiently. "Old Suse has been hugging and kissing me till I was half smothered, down there in the kitchen; and it didn't take her half the time it does you two. Come along."
"Good-bye! good-bye!" said Louis, waving his hand to Minnette, who followed him to the door; and the next moment they were dashing along at break-neck speed toward Sunset Hall.
The moonlight that night fell on Celeste, kneeling in her own little room, praying for Louis and Archie, and sobbing in unrestrained grief whenever her eye fell upon the bright gold cross —his parting gift. Appropriate gift from one who seemed destined to never lay aught but crosses upon her!
It fell upon Minnette, sitting still by the window, with a face as cold and white as the moonlight on which she gazed. She did not love Louis Oranmore; but she admired him – liked him better than any one else she knew, perhaps, because he was handsome. But she hated Celeste; and his evident preference for her kindled up the flames of jealousy in her passionate soul, until she could have killed her without remorse.
The next morning the gay party set out for New York; and in due course of time they reached that city, and put up at one of the best hotels.
"Suppose we go to the opera to-night?" said Lizzie to the squire, as she sat – all her languor gone – looking out of the window at the stream of life flowing below.
"Just as you like – it's all one to me," said the squire, with most sublime indifference.
"Then the opera be it," said Lizzie, and the opera, accordingly, it was. And a few hours later found them comfortably seated, listening to the music, and gazing on the gayly-attired people around them.
"How delightful this is!" exclaimed Lizzie, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
"Humph! – delightful! Set of fools! 'All is vanity,' as Solomon says. Wonder who foots the bills for all this glittering and shaking toggery?" grunted the squire.
"I've heard them say that the young danseuse, 'La Petite Eaglet,' is going to dance to-night," said Louis. "Everybody's raving about her."
"Why? Is she so beautiful?" inquired Lizzie.
"No, I believe not; it's because she dances so well," replied Louis.
At this moment the curtain arose, a thunder of applause shook the house, and La Petite Eaglet herself stood before them. A little straight, lithe figure, arrayed in floating, gauzy robes of white silver tissue, and crowned with white roses – a small, dark, keen, piquant face – bright, roguish eyes, that went dancing like lightning around the house. Suddenly her eye fell on our party from St. Mark's; a slight start and a quick removal of her eyes followed. The applause grew deafening as the people hailed their favorite. She bowed. The music struck merrily up, and her tiny feet went glancing, like rain-drops, here and there. She seemed floating in air, not touching the ground, as she whirled, and flew, and skimmed like a bird in the sunshine. The squire was dizzy – absolutely dizzy – looking at her. His head was going round, spinning like a top, or like her feet, as he gazed. Lizzie and Louis were entranced, but Archie, after the first glance, sat with dilating eyes and parted lips – incredulous, amazed, bewildered – with a look of half-puzzled, half-delighted recognition on his face.
Still the little dancer whirled and pirouetted before them; and when she ceased a shout of applause thundered through the building, shaking it to its center. Flowers, wreaths, and bouquets fell in showers around her; ladies waved their handkerchiefs and clapped their little hands in the excitement of the moment. The opera-going world seemed to have gone mad. And there stood the little Eaglet, bowing to the delighted audience, the very impersonification of self-possession and grace.
Suddenly, rising as if to speak, she removed the crown of roses from her head. There was a profound, a dead silence, where lately all had been uproar. Every eye was bent in wonder – every neck was strained to see what she was about to do.
Taking one step forward, she fixed her eyes on the box occupied by the squire and his family. Every eye, as a matter of course, turned in that direction likewise. Raising the wreath, she threw it toward them, and it alighted in triumph on the brow of the squire.
In a moment she was gone. Up sprang Archie, quite regardless of the thousands of eyes upon him, and waving his cap in the air above his head, he shouted, in wild exultation:
"I knew it! I knew it! It's our Gipsy! – it's Gipsy Gower!"
CHAPTER XVII.
GIPSY'S RETURN TO SUNSET HALL
"This maiden's sparkling eyes
Are pretty and all that, sir;
But then her little tongue
Is quite too full of chat, sir." – Moore.
The effect of Archie's announcement on our party may be imagined. Lizzie uttered a stifled shriek and fell back in her seat; the squire's eyes protruded until they seemed ready to burst from their sockets; Louis gazed like one thunderstruck, and caught hold of Archie, who seemed inclined to leap on the stage in search of his little lady-love.
"Let me go into the green-room – let us go before she leaves," cried Archie, struggling to free himself from the grasp of Louis.
The crowd were now dispersing; and the squire and his party arose and were borne along by the throng, headed by Archie, whose frantic exertions – as he dug his elbows right and left, to make a passage, quite regardless of feelings and ribs – soon brought them to the outer air; and ten minutes later – the squire never could tell how – found them in the green-room, among painted actresses and slip-shod, shabby-looking actors.
Archie's eyes danced over the assembled company, who looked rather surprised, not to say indignant, at this sudden entrance, and rested at last on a straight, slight, little figure, with its back toward them. With one bound he cleared the intervening space betwixt them, and without waiting to say "by your leave," clasped her in his arms, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.
"Dear me, Archie, is that you? Take care! you're mussing my new dress dreadfully!" was the astoundingly cool salutation, in the well-known tones of our little Gipsy.
"Oh, Gipsy, how could you do it? Oh, Gipsy, it was such a shame," exclaimed Archie, reproachfully.
At this moment she espied Louis advancing toward her, and accosted him with:
"How d'ye do, Louis? – how's Celeste and Minnette, and Mignonne, and all the rest? Pretty well, eh?"
"Gipsy! Gipsy! what a way to talk after our long parting," said Louis, almost provoked by her indifference. "You don't know how we all grieved for you. Poor Mrs. Gower has become quite a skeleton crying for her 'monkey.'"
"Oh, poor, dear aunty! that's too bad now. But here comes Guardy and Lizzie. I don't think Guardy was breaking his heart about me anyway! He looks in capital condition yet."
At this moment the squire came over with Lizzie leaning on his arm.
"Hallo! Guardy, how are you? How did you like the opera?" exclaimed Gipsy, in the same tone she would have used had she parted from him an hour before.
"Oh, Gipsy! you little wretch you! I never thought it would come to this," groaned the squire.
"No, you thought I wasn't clever enough! Just see how easy it is to be deceived! Didn't I dance beautifully, though, and ain't I credit to you now? I'll leave it to Archie here. Aunt Lizzie, I'll speak to you as soon as I get time. Here comes old Barnes, the manager, to know what's the matter."
"Oh, Gipsy, you'll come home with us, my love, you really must," exclaimed Lizzie.
"Couldn't, aunty, by no manner of means," replied Gipsy, shaking her head.
"But I'll be shot if you don't, though," shouted the squire, "so no more about it. Do you think I'm going to let a ward of mine go with a gang of strolling players any longer?"
"I'm no ward of yours, Squire Erliston; I'm my own mistress, thanks be to goodness, free and independent, and so I mean to stay," exclaimed Gipsy, with sparkling eyes.
"But, oh, my dear! my dear Gipsy, do come home with us to-night," pleaded Lizzie, taking her hand.
"You will, Gipsy, just for to-night," coaxed Louis. And: "Ah, Gipsy, won't you now?" pleaded Archie, looking up in her saucy little face, with something very like tears shining in his usually merry blue eyes.
"Well – maybe – just for to-night," said Gipsy, slowly yielding; "but mind, I must go back to-morrow."
"And may I be kicked to death by grasshoppers, if ever I let you go back," muttered the squire to himself.
"Here comes the manager, Mr. Barnes," said Gipsy, raising her voice; "these are my friends, and I am going home with them to-night."
"You'll be back to-morrow in time for the rehearsal" inquired Mr. Barnes, in no very pleased tone of voice.
"Oh, yes, to be sure," said Gipsy, as she ran off to get her hat and cloak.
"We'll see about that!" said the squire, inwardly, with a knowing nod.
Gipsy soon made her appearance. A cab was in waiting, and the whole party were soon on their way to the hotel.
"And now, tell us all your adventures since the night you eloped from Sunset Hall," said Louis, as they drove along.
"By and by. Tell me first all that has happened at St. Mark's since I left – all about Celeste, and the rest of my friends."
So Louis related all that had transpired since her departure – softening, as much as he could, the outrageous conduct of Minnette.
"Poor Celeste!" exclaimed Gipsy, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. "Oh, don't I wish I'd only been there to take her part! Wouldn't I have given it to Minnette – the ugly old thing! – beg pardon, Archie, for calling your cousin names."
"Oh, you're welcome to call her what you please, for all I care," replied Archie, in a nonchalant tone. "I'm not dying about her."
"There's no love lost, I think," said Louis, laughing.
By this time they had reached the hotel. Lizzie took Gipsy to her room to brush her hair and arrange her dress, and then led her to the parlor, where the trio were waiting them.
"And now for your story!" exclaimed Archie, condescendingly pushing a stool toward Gipsy with his foot.
"Well, it's not much to tell," said Gipsy. "After leaving you, Guardy, that night, in an excessively amiable frame of mind, I went up to my room and sat down to deliberate whether I'd set fire to the house and burn you all in your beds, or take a razor and cut your windpipe, by way of letting in a little hint to be more polite to me in future."
"Good Lord! I just thought so!" ejaculated the horrified squire.
"Finally, Guardy, I came to the conclusion that I would do neither. Both were unpleasant jobs – at least they would have been unpleasant to you, whatever they might have been to me, and would have taken too much time. So I concluded to let you burden the earth a little longer, and quote Solomon for the edification of the world generally, and in the meantime to make myself as scarce as possible; for I'd no idea of staying to be knocked about like an old dishcloth. So I got up, took my last supply of pocket-money, stole down to the stables, mounted Mignonne, and dashed off like the wind. Poor Mignonne! I rather think I astonished him that night, and we were both pretty well blown by the time we reached Brande's Tavern.
"There I took breakfast, left Mignonne – much against my will – jumped into the mail-coach, and started for the city. Arrived there, I was for awhile rather at a loss in what direction to turn my talents. My predominant idea, however, was to don pantaloons and go to sea. Being determined to see the lions, while I staid, I went one night to the play, saw a little girl dancing, and – Eureka! I had discovered what I was born for at last! 'Couldn't I beat that?' says I to myself. And so, when I went home, I just got up before the looking-glass, stood on one toe, and stuck the other leg straight out, as she had done, cut a few pigeon-wings, turned a somerset or two, and came to the conclusion that if I didn't become a danseuse forthwith, it would be the greatest loss this world ever sustained – the fall of Jerusalem not excepted. To a young lady of my genius it was no very difficult thing to accomplish. I went to see Old Barnes, who politely declined my services. But I wasn't going 'to give it up so, Mr. Brown,' and, like the widow in the Scripture, I gave him no peace, night or day, until he accepted my services. Well, after that all was plain sailing enough. Maybe I didn't astonish the world by the rapidity with which my continuations went up and down. It was while there I wrote that letter of consolation to Aunty Gower, by way of setting your minds at ease. Then we went to Washington, then to New York, and everywhere I 'won golden opinions from all sorts of people,' as Shakespeare, or Solomon, or some of them old fellows says. I always kept a bright lookout for you all, for I had a sort of presentiment I'd stumble against you some day. So I wasn't much surprised, but a good pleased, when I saw Guardy's dear old head protruding, like a huge overboiled beet, from one of the boxes to-night. And so —Finis!"
"Gipsy," exclaimed Archie, "you're a regular specimen of Young America! You deserve a leather medal, or a service of tin plate – you do, by Jove!"
"'Pon honor, now?"
"Oh, Gipsy, my love, I'm very sorry to think you could have degraded yourself in such a way!" said Lizzie, with a shockingly shocked expression of countenance.
"Degraded, Aunt Lizzie!" exclaimed Gipsy, indignantly. "I'd like to know whether it's more degrading to earn one's living, free and merry, as a respectable, 'sponsible, danceable dancer, as Totty would say, or to stay depending on any one, to be called a beggar, and kicked about like an old shoe, if you didn't do everything a snappish old crab of an old gentleman took into his absurd old head. I never was made to obey any one – and what's more, I won't neither. There, now!"
"Take care, Gipsy; don't make any rash promises," said Archie. "You've got to promise to 'love, honor, and obey' me, one of these days."
"Never-r-r! Obey you, indeed! Don't you wish I may do it?"
"Well, but, my love," said Lizzie, returning to the charge, "though it is too late to repair what you have done, you must be a dancing-girl no longer. You must return home with us to Sunset Hall."
"Return to Sunset Hall! Likely I'll go there to be abused again! Not I, indeed, Aunt Lizzie; much obliged to you, at the same time, for the offer."
"And I vow, Miss Flyaway, you shall go with us – there!"
"And I vow, Guardy, I sha'n't go with you – there!"
"I'll go to law, and compel you to come. I'm your rightful guardian!" said the squire, in rising wrath.
"Rightful fiddlesticks! I'm no ward of yours; I'm Aunty Gower's niece; and the law's got nothing to do with me," replied Gipsy, with an audacious snap of her fingers; for neither Gipsy nor the boys knew how she was found on the beach.
"And is that all the thanks you give me for offering to plague myself with you, you ungrateful little varmint?"
"I'm not ungrateful, Squire Erliston!" flashed Gipsy – a streak of fiery red darting across her dark face. "I'm not ungrateful; but I won't be a slave to come at your beck; I won't be called a beggar – a pauper; I won't be told the workhouse is my rightful home; I won't be struck like a cur, and then kiss the hand that strikes me. No! I'm not ungrateful; but, though I'm only a little girl, I won't be insulted and abused for nothing. I can earn my own living, free and happy, without whining for any one's favor, thank Heaven!"
Her little form seemed to tower upward with the consciousness of inward power, her eyes filled, blazed, and dilated, and her dark cheek crimsoned with proud defiance.
The squire forgot his anger as he gazed in admiration on the high-spirited little creature standing before him, as haughty as a little empress. Stretching out his arms, he caught her, and seated her on his knee – stroking her short, dancing curls, as he said, in the playful tone one might use to a spoiled baby:
"And can't my little monkey make allowance for an old man's words? You know you were very naughty and mischievous that day, and I had cause to be angry with you; and if I said harsh things, it was all for your good, you know."
"All for my good! – such stuff! I wish you'd put me down. I'm a young lady, I'd have you to know; and I ain't going to be used like a baby, dandled up and down without any regard for my dignity!" said Gipsy, with so indignant an expression of countenance, that Archie – who, as I before mentioned, was blessed with a keen sense of the ludicrous – fell back, roaring with laughter.
"Now, Gipsy, my love, do be reasonable and return home with us," said Lizzie, impatiently.
"I won't, then – there!" said Gipsy, rather sullenly.
But the tears rushed into Lizzie's eyes – for she really was very fond of the eccentric elf – and in a moment Gipsy was off the squire's knee, and her arms round Lizzie's neck.
"Why, aunty, did I make you cry? Oh, I'm so sorry! Please don't cry, dear, dear aunty."
"Oh, Gipsy, it's so selfish of you not to return with us, when we are so lonesome at home without you," said Lizzie, fairly sobbing.
"Yes; and poor Mrs. Gower will break her heart when she hears about it – I know she will," said Louis, in a lachrymose tone.
"And I'll break mine – I know I will!" added Archie, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes, and with some difficulty squeezing out a tear.
"And I'll blow my stupid old brains out; and after that, I'll break my heart, too," chimed in the squire, in a very melancholy tone of voice.
"Well! la me! you'll have rather a smashing time of it if you all break your hearts. What'll you do with the pieces, Guardy? – sell them for marbles?" said Gipsy, laughing.
"There! I knew you'd relent; I said it. Oh, Gipsy, my darling, I knew you wouldn't desert your 'Guardy' in his old age. I knew you wouldn't let him go down to his grave like a miserable, consumptive old tabby-cat, with no wicked little 'imp' to keep him from stagnating. Oh, Gipsy, my dear, may Heaven bless you!"
"Bother! I haven't said I'd go. Don't jump at conclusions. Before I'd be with you a week you'd be blowing me up sky-high."
"But, Gipsy, you know I can't live without blowing somebody up. You ought to make allowance for an old man's temper. It runs in our family to blow up. I had an uncle, or something, that was 'blown up' at the battle of Bunker Hill. Then I always feel after it as amiable as a cat when eating her kittens. 'After a storm there cometh a calm,' as Solomon says."
"Well, maybe there's something in that," said Gipsy, thoughtfully.
"And you know, my love," said Lizzie, "that, though a little girl may be a dancer, it's a dreadful life for a young woman – which you will be in two or three years. No one ever respects a dancing girl; no gentleman ever would marry you."
"Wouldn't they, though!" said Gipsy, so indignantly that Archie once more fell back, convulsed. "If they wouldn't, somebody 'd lose the smartest, cleverest, handsomest young lady on this terrestrial globe, though I say it, as 'hadn't oughter.' Well, since you all are going to commit suicide if I don't go with you, I suppose old Barnes must lose the 'bright particular star' of his company, and I must return to St. Mark's, to waste my sweetness on the desert air."
This resolution was greeted with enthusiastic delight by all present; and the night was far advanced before the squire could part with his "little vixen," and allow her to go to rest.
Old Barnes – as Gipsy called him – was highly indignant at the treatment he had received, and, going to the hotel, began abusing Gipsy and the squire, and everybody else generally; whereupon the squire, who never was noted for his patience, took him by the collar, and, by a well-applied kick, landed him in the kennel – a pleasant way of settling disputes which he had learned while dealing with his negroes, but for which an over-particular court made him pay pretty high damages.
Three days after, Louis and Archie bade them farewell, and entered college; and the squire, after a pleasure-trip of a few weeks, set out for St. Mark's.
In due course of time he arrived at that refugium peccatorum; and the unbounded delight with which Gipsy was hailed can never be described by pen of mine.
Good Mrs. Gower could scarcely believe that her darling was really before her; and it was only when listening to the uproar that everywhere followed the footsteps of the said darling, that she could be convinced.
As for Celeste, not knowing whether to laugh or cry with joy, she split the difference, and did both. Even Miss Hagar's grim face relaxed as Gipsy came flashing into their quiet cottage like a March whirlwind, throwing everything into such "admired disorder," that it generally took the quiet little housekeeper, Celeste, half a day to set things to rights afterward.
And now it began to be time to think of completing the education of the two young girls. Minnette had left for school before the return of Gipsy, and it became necessary to send them likewise. Loath as the squire was to part with his pet, he felt he must do it, and urged Miss Hagar to allow Celeste to accompany her.
"Gipsy will defend her from the malice of Minnette, and the two girls will be company for each other," said the old man to the spinster. "Girls must know how to chatter French, and bang on a piano, and make worsted cats and dogs, and all such! So let little Snowdrop, here, go with my monkey, and I'll foot the bill."
Miss Hagar consented; and a month after found our little rustic lasses – our fair "Star of the Valley" and our mountain fairy, moving in the new world of boarding-school.