Then another thought came, and she drooped her head mournfully. "If I do that they will claim me for their child. `Not all the parsons and all the squires as ever was could prevent it,' Seraminta had said. What would happen then? I should have to go away from Wensdale, from father and mother, from Jackie, and all of them at the White House. They would all know that I belonged to thieves--not only to common, poor people, but to bad people. I should have to tramp about the country in dirty old clothes, and perhaps no shoes. Anything would be better. I would rather they stole all the chickens. Perhaps after that they will go away, and I shall never see them again." She seized the scrap of paper and spelt it over a second time. Monday night--that was Jackie's birthday, a whole week off. Surely something might happen before then. The squire might find out the gypsies' hiding-place, and lock them up. Oh, if she might only give him the least little hint! But she soon made up her mind firmly that she would risk nothing. She would do all they told her, she would leave the door unlocked, and help them to steal the chickens, and neither by word or look would she do anything to lead to their discovery. For she felt certain of what would follow if she did--disgrace, ragged clothes, and utter misery. After many sorrowful thoughts of this kind she at last sobbed herself to sleep, and dreamed that she saw Perrin the gypsy man stealing stealthily out of the garden with a hen under each arm. During the week that followed she felt as though she were dreaming still, though everything went on as usual with quiet regularity. She worked in her garden and fed her chickens, and went to the White House for her lessons with Fraulein. Outwardly it was all exactly the same, but within what a heavy heart she carried about with her! If she forgot her troubles for a few minutes in a merry game or a book, they all came back to her afterwards with double force. She belonged to gypsies; Monday they would steal the chickens; it was Jackie's birthday, and she could give him no present. Those three things weighed on her mind like lead and altered her in so many ways that everyone was puzzled. She was submissive at home and obedient to Fraulein at the White House, never even smiling at her funniest English words; she was ready to give up her own will and pleasure to the other children; and more than once Jackie had discovered her in tears--she was "proud Mary" no longer.