But the questions had reminded Mary of something which till now she had forgotten--Squire Chelwood's danger. She ought to warn Jackie; but if she did, the gypsies would come and take her away, perhaps that very night. She could not risk that. And yet, Jackie's father! It would be too dreadful. "Ours you'll be for ever" seemed to sound in her ear: she shuddered; no, she could not do it. Suddenly a thought struck her, and she pulled Jackie gently by the sleeve. "Jackie," she said softly, very softly, so that Seraminta might not hear, "where does Hamlet sleep at night?" Hamlet was a Danish boar-hound belonging to the squire. "Hamlet," said Jackie. "Why, he sleeps just outside father's bed-room door, and sometimes in the night he walks up and down the corridor, and his tail goes flop up against the door. Once father thought it was thieves." "I suppose Hamlet's very strong?" said Mary earnestly. "I should just rather think he was," said Jackie. "He wouldn't make much of a robber. He'd just rear up on his hind-legs and take him by the throat--so." He launched himself forward as he spoke, and seized Patrick by the neck. "And that would kill the robber?" asked Mary. "Dead as a nail," replied Jackie with decision. "Don't you wish robbers _would_ come some night," suggested Jennie. "What would you do if they did?" said Agatha. "I know what she'd do," put in Patrick quickly; "she'd hide her head under the bed-clothes and keep on screaming for Rice." "If I had a pistol I should shoot them," said Jackie, "only mine won't go off." "And perhaps," said Agatha, "_they'd_ have pistols that _would_ go off." "Oh! I say," exclaimed Jackie suddenly, "if here isn't Mary actually crying away like anything. What's the matter with her?" It was quite true. Overwrought and frightened, these dreadful pictures of robbers and pistols had a reality for her which was too much to bear. Mary the courageous, the high-spirited, who scorned tears and laughed at weakness, was now crying and sobbing helplessly, like the greatest coward of them all. Fraulein put her arm round her compassionately. "She is quaite too tired," she said; "it is an attack of nerfs. Nefer mind, dear shild. When you will sleep to-night you shall feel quaite better to-morrow." She drew her closely to her side; and Mary, who generally despised Fraulein and laughed at her broken English, was thankful now to feel the comfort of her kind protecting arm. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 4. A GYPSY CHILD?