Jim paused. He expected sympathy, but he hoped for dinner. When he saw he was to get neither, he hunched his lame hip; scratched his head, balanced the sawbuck, and shuffled away. Too overcome to move, Split sat looking after him. Her father! This, then, was her father! She was dazed, helpless, too overwhelmed even to be unhappy yet. There came a shrill call for her from Kate, and Split, with unaccustomed meekness, staggered obediently to her feet. What was left for her but to be a slave, she said stonily to herself. She was an Indian like--like her father! And Sissy had noticed the resemblance that very afternoon! "It's the bell, Split," explained Kate, who was reading "The Spanish Gypsy" in the low, hall-like library. She had begun to read the book for the reason that no one in her class at school had read it--usually a compelling reason for the eldest of the Madigans; but the poetic beauty, the extravagance of the romance, had whirled the girl away from her pretentious pose, and she was finishing it now because she could not help it; chained to it, it seemed to her, till she should know the end. "Shall I go?" asked Split, humbly, looking up at her sister. Kate looked up, too surprised by her sister's docility to do anything but nod. She had anticipated a battle, a ring at the door-bell being the signal for a flying wedge of Madigans tearing through the hall, with inquisitive Irene at its apex--except when she was asked to answer it. The sisters' eyes met: those of the elder, in her thin, dark, flushed face, hazy with romantic happiness; those of the younger bright with romantic suffering, demanding a share of that felicity which transfigured her senior. "What're you reading, anyway, Kate?" she asked. As well tap the bung of a cask and ask what it holds. Kate began chanting: "'Father, your child is ready! She will not Forsake her kindred: she will brave all scorn Sooner than scorn herself. Let Spaniards all, Christians, Jews, Moors, shoot out the lip and say, "Lo, the first hero in a tribe of thieves!" Is it not written so of them? They, too, Were slaves, lost, wandering, sunk beneath a curse, Till Moses, Christ, and Mahomet were born, Till beings lonely in their greatness lived, And lived to save their people.'" It poured from Kate's lips, the story of the lady Fedalma and her Gipsy father, a stream of winy romance, a sugared impossibility preserved in the very spirits of poetry. Again the old bell jangled, and again. Kate was glutted, drunk with the sound of the verbal music that had been chorusing behind her lips; while for Irene every word seemed charged with the significance of special revelation. The light seemed to leap from her sister's eyes to kindle a conflagration in her own. "Read it again--that part--Kate! Read it!" she cried. And Kate, not a bit loath, turned the page and repeated: