ss on his
behalf. It seemed high time that some news was received of the
expedition. It was now seven months from the date of Mr. Latimer's
letter, and he had apparently expected to return in three or four.

Poor Gipsy conjured up all kinds of fears for her father's safety. She
imagined him ill in some inaccessible spot, without medical aid, or
taken prisoner by a native chief, or--more terrible still--that he had
succumbed to the dangers and difficulties of the journey. She carried
his letter about as her greatest treasure, and kissed it a dozen times a
day; but she felt that, while appreciating its possession, she found it
a very unsatisfactory substitute for the fuller details she coveted of
his present welfare.

Her second trouble was the fact that she was still supposed to be guilty
of that surreptitious outing in the evening, and to have flatly told
falsehoods to screen herself. Gipsy had many faults, but she was
strictly truthful, and this imputation against her honour rankled
sorely. Miss Poppleton had not pressed the matter, probably thinking it
a secondary consideration to her greater crime of running away. In her
relief at receiving a handsome cheque from Mr. Latimer's bankers, the
Principal had decided to forgive Gipsy's past indiscretions, and to
start afresh on a different basis. By a little rearrangement she managed
to find room for Gipsy again in her old dormitory, and the manifold odd
duties which had been assigned to her were entirely removed. Once back
in her favourite No. 3, with a new set of summer clothes and an ample
supply of pocket-money, Gipsy felt reinstated in her former position in
school. With the utmost satisfaction she paid up her arrears of
subscriptions to the Guild, and put straight several other little
matters where she felt she owed a moral if not an actual debt.

"There's only one thing that makes me savage," she declared one evening
to some of her own set who were assembled in the Juniors' room, "and
that is that Poppie still believes I told those awful fibs about not
going out that wet evening. On my honour I spoke the truth. Somebody
else must have gone out in my waterproof."

"What does it matter, now it's all over?" asked Leonora. "Poppie's
forgiven you."

"Why, it matters a great deal. I don't want to be forgiven for what I've
never done. And I don't care to possess a reputation for telling fibs.
Whoever went out in my cloak ought to own up, and if she doesn't, she's
a m