rian blood."

"Gipsy--is that so?" he said spontaneously, as she watched him so
intently that the pulses throbbed at her temples.

A short time ago Fleda might have announced her origin defiantly, now
her courage failed her. She did not wish him to be prejudiced against
her.

"Well, well," he added, "I only just guessed at it, because there's
something unusual and strong in you, not because your eyes are so dark
and your hair so brown."

"Not because of my 'wild beauty'--I thought you were going to say that,"
she added ironically and a little defiantly. "I got some verses by post
the other day from one of your friends in Lebanon--a stock-rider I think
he was, and they said I had a 'wild beauty' and a 'savage sweetness.'"

He laughed, yet he suddenly saw her sensitive vigilance, and by instinct
he felt that she was watching for some sign of shock or disdain on his
part; yet in truth he cared no more whether she had Gipsy blood in her
than he would have done if she had said she was a daughter of the Czar.

"Men do write that kind of thing," he added cheerfully, "but it's quite
harmless. There was a disease at college we called adjectivitis. Your
poet friend had it. He could have left out the 'wild' and 'savage' and
he'd have been pleasant, and truthful too--no, I apologize."

He had seen her face darken under the compliment, and he hastened to put
it right.

"I loved a Gipsy once," he added whimsically to divert attention from
his mistake, and with so genuine a sympathy in his voice that she was
disarmed. "I was ten and she was fifty at least. Oh, a wonderful woman!
I had a boy friend, a fat, happy, little joker he was; his name was
Charley Long. Well, this woman was his aunt. When she moved through
the town people looked twice. She was tall and splendidly made, and her
manner--oh, as if she owned the place. She did own a lot--she had more
money than any one else thereabouts, anyhow. It was the tallest kind of
a holiday when Charley and I walked out to the big white house-golly,
but it was white--to visit her! We didn't eat much the day before we
went to see her; and we didn't eat much the day after, either. She used
to feed us--I wish I could eat like that now! I can see her brown eyes
following us about, full of fire, but soft and kind, too. 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