ust bear it now if I know
it's for your good. But afterward it'll be too late. It would be the
worst misery of all if I made you unhappy. Oh, make sure--make sure! I
shall understand. I mean this with every bit of me. And now,
good-night, and perhaps--good-bye.

"Your
"GYP."

She read it over and shivered. Did she really mean that she could bear
it if he drew back--if he did look far, far into the future, and decided
that she was not worth the candle? Ah, but better now--than later.

She closed and sealed the letter, and sat down to wait for her father.
And she thought: 'Why does one have a heart? Why is there in one
something so much too soft?'

Ten days later, at Mildenham station, holding her father's hand, Gyp
could scarcely see him for the mist before her eyes. How good he had
been to her all those last days, since she told him that she was going to
take the plunge! Not a word of remonstrance or complaint.

"Good-bye, my love! Take care of yourself; wire from London, and again
from Paris." And, smiling up at her, he added: "He has luck; I had
none."

The mist became tears, rolled down, fell on his glove.

"Not too long out there, Gyp!"

She pressed her wet cheek passionately to his. The train moved, but, so
long as she could see, she watched him standing on the platform, waving
his grey hat, then, in her corner, sat down, blinded with tears behind
her veil. She had not cried when she left him the day of her fatal
marriage; she cried now that she was leaving him to go to her incredible
happiness.

Strange! But her heart had grown since then.

PART IV

I

Little Gyp, aged nearly four and a half that first of May, stood at the
edge of the tulip border, bowing to two hen turkeys who were poking their
heads elegantly here and there among the flowers. She was absurdly like
her mother, the same oval-shaped face, dark arched brows, large and clear
brown eyes; but she had the modern child's open-air look; her hair, that
curled over at the ends, was not allowed to be long, and her polished
brown legs were bare to the knees.

"Turkeys! You aren't good, are you? Come ON!" And, stretching out her
hands with the palms held up, she backed away from the tulip-bed. The
turkeys, trailing delicately their long-toed feet and uttering soft,
liquid interrogations, moved after her in hopes of what she was not
holding in her little brown hands. The sun, down in the west, for it was
past t