It was past eleven o’clock, but, without the courtesy of knocking, she coolly turned the handle of the door and entered, a tall, white figure in a loose dressing-gown, with a shimmer of golden hair about her shoulders. There was a light in the room, for Gipsy had not retired. She was resting in her easy chair by the window, her slight figure and beautiful face bathed in the flood of summer moonlight. Though it was late, she could not sleep, her excited thoughts were following handsome, debonair Laurie Willoughby. More than once she had raised her hand and kissed the shining ring on her finger for the giver’s sake. And faithful memory recalled over and over every glance of his eyes, every tone of his voice, every word he had spoken, every separate charm that made him one of the most captivating of men. Unconsciously to herself, she was passionately in love with Laurie, though it would have frightened her if she had realized the meaning of her sweet, tumultuous thoughts. On these sweet emotions, and the calm solitude of the hour, broke Lelia Ritchie, like an evil spirit--specterlike in her loose white robe and waving hair. Gipsy started in sudden fear and dread, with a low cry of wonder. “Who is that? What do you want?” “Don’t you know me, Gipsy--Miss Ritchie?” exclaimed the intruder superciliously, as she drew forward a chair, seating herself in front of the girl. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Ritchie. I almost took you for a ghost at first,” laughed Gipsy, recovering herself quickly, though she wondered secretly at the visit. Lelia answered carelessly: “I’ve been waiting for you to get well, so as to come in and thank you for saving Laurie’s and my life that day. You acted very bravely, and we are anxious to pay our debt of gratitude by a suitable gift. Tell me frankly what you wish for most.” If Gipsy could have spoken out the impulse of her heart, she might have answered: “I covet nothing you have, proud beauty, except your noble lover, Laurie Willoughby.” But such a choice was not for Gipsy, the waif, and she sat there, pale and mute, while Lelia continued airily: “Now, what shall the present be? A silk gown, a piece of jewelry, or a sum of money? You can take your choice.” The pale girl in the chair answered earnestly: “Oh, Miss Ritchie, I desire no gift from you. The approval of my own conscience is sufficient reward.” It seemed to Lelia that the girl was really trying to put herself on a level with her superiors by her answer, and she cried out waspishly: “I cannot let it go that way, Gipsy Darke! I insist on making you a present!” Poor, innocent Gipsy, she dreamed not what disaster she was calling down upon her head when she gently replied: “Please do not insist on it, Miss Ritchie, because the gift Mr. Willoughby brought me to-day was more than enough from you both, and, of course, he intended it that way.”