am 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 tea-time, slanted from over the roof of the red house, and painted
up that small procession--the deep blue frock of little Gyp, the glint
of gold in the chestnut of her hair; the daisy-starred grass; the dark
birds with translucent red dewlaps, and checkered tails and the tulip
background, puce and red and yellow. When she had lured them to the open
gate, little Gyp raised herself, and said:

"Aren't you duffies, dears? Shoo!" And on the tails of the turkeys she
shut the gate. Then she went to where, under the walnut-tree--the one
large tree of that walled garden--a very old Scotch terrier was lying,
and sitting down beside him, began stroking his white muzzle, saying:

"Ossy, Ossy, do you love me?"