“Early this morning as I was coming to breakfast I heard some one at the front door. Opening it I discovered the youth you and Bettina rescued yesterday. He was wearing a bright scarlet tam-o-shanter and a velvet coat and had a crimson scarf about his neck, and really looked rather handsome. I met him at dinner yesterday evening, but he was not in the least concerned in speaking to me and made no pretence of recognizing me. At once he demanded Mrs. Graham. When Aunt Betty came out into the hall he thrust a leather case into her hands and asked her to read his collection of unpublished poems. “Aunt Betty was of course very sweet and gracious about it, but I heard her moaning over the fact afterwards that actually there are fifty poems. Bettina counted. She and Tante were laughing over the fact after breakfast, since Aunt Betty insists she detests poetry and has scarcely read a line of it in years. However, the poet appeared to think she would be delighted with the opportunity!” Mary Gilchrist frowned. “Oh, I wish the poet and his poetry might vanish together. In fact, if I knew where Mrs. Graham had placed the masterpieces I should like to light a blaze with them. It is absurd of me, Sally, but I took a dislike to the youth and afterwards my own behavior made me dislike him the more, as though he were partly responsible. But do go for a walk, Sally, you love the indoors as much as I do the open country. It is a wonderful morning and will do you lots of good.” Half an hour later, slightly against her will, as she preferred the open fire and her sewing, Sally Ashton and the little Lancashire girl started for a walk together. Mrs. Burton had sent word that Chitty was in need of amusement and Sally had volunteered her services. Now like children they danced through the pine woods behind the camp, sometimes walking sedately, at others running a few steps, frightening the squirrels and chipmunks, who came out and seated themselves on the upper branches of the trees to chatter and scold. “You do not appear in the least uncomfortable from your injury yesterday,” Sally remarked, after protesting that they walk more quietly. “Nevertheless, suppose we sit down and rest for a few moments. I am not a gypsy, although I remember you once said that you would like to be one.” The younger girl, who was a daughter of an English miner, sat down on a bed of pine needles facing Sally, who preferred the trunk of a riven tree. “Yes, I used to talk of wishing to be a gypsy, but that was before I went to Ireland with my father and we attempted to live like gypsies. Then we used to go about through the villages, where I had to sing in the streets for pennies in the wind and rain and cold. Sometimes we slept indoors but more often in stables and lofts, until I was often too weary to sing. Then my father grew tired of the wandering life and wished to return to the army. Now I think what I wished was to live in a forest like this and always to be happy and free.”