ever vanishing and
ever springing again out of death. While they stood there close to the
old linhay a bird came flying round them in wide circles, uttering shrill
cries. It had a long beak and long, pointed wings, and seemed distressed
by their presence. Little Gyp squeezed her mother's hand.

"Poor bird! Isn't it a poor bird, mum?"

"Yes, dear, it's a curlew--I wonder what's the matter with it. Perhaps
its mate is hurt."

"What is its mate?"

"The bird it lives with."

"It's afraid of us. It's not like other birds. Is it a real bird, mum?
Or one out of the sky?"

"I think it's real. Shall we go on and see if we can find out what's the
matter?"

"Yes."

They went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew continued to circle,
vanishing and reappearing from behind the trees, always uttering those
shrill cries. Little Gyp said:

"Mum, could we speak to it? Because we're not going to hurt nothing, are
we?"

"Of course not, darling! But I'm afraid the poor bird's too wild. Try,
if you like. Call to it: 'Courlie! Courlie!"'

Little Gyp's piping joined the curlew's cries and other bird-songs in the
bright shadowy quiet of the evening till Gyp said:

"Oh, look; it's dipping close to the ground, over there in that
corner--it's got a nest! We won't go near, will we?"

Little Gyp echoed in a hushed voice:

"It's got a nest."

They stole back out of the gate close to the linhay, the curlew still
fighting and crying behind them.

"Aren't we glad the mate isn't hurt, mum?"

Gyp answered with a shiver:

"Yes, darling, fearfully glad. Now then, shall we go down and ask Grandy
to come up to dinner?"

Little Gyp hopped. And they went toward the river.

At "The Bowl of Cream," Winton had for two years had rooms, which he
occupied as often as his pursuits permitted. He had refused to make his
home with Gyp, desiring to be on hand only when she wanted him; and a
simple life of it he led in those simple quarters, riding with her when
Summerhay was in town, visiting the cottagers, smoking cigars, laying
plans for the defence of his daughter's position, and devoting himself to
the whims of little Gyp. This moment, when his grandchild was to begin
to ride, was in a manner sacred to one for whom life had scant meaning
apart from horses. Looking at them, hand in hand, Gyp thought: 'Dad loves
her as much as he loves me now--more, I think.'

Lonely dinner at the inn was an infliction which he studiously c