darted deeper among the shrubs and bushes for the young woman passed so close that she could have touched her. The gypsy girl remained in hiding and watched the small children who looked strange to her with their flaxen hair and pink cheeks used as she was to the dark-eyed, black-haired, fox-like little gypsies.
The baby boy was a chubby laughing two-year-old, “Birdie,” as he called his sister, played with him for a time on the grass in front of their cottage. At last, wearying of this, she said – “Now Bobby, you sit right still like a mouse while Birdie goes and fetches out her dollie.”
Springing up, the little girl ran indoors. A second later a butterfly darted past the wee boy. Gurgling in delight, he scrambled to his feet and toddled uncertainly after it. Out through the partly-open iron gates he went, and then, tripping, he sprawled in the dust of the roadway. At that same instant Nan heard the chugging of an oncoming machine and leaping from her hiding place, she darted through the gates and into the road. A big touring car was swerving around a corner. The frightened baby, after trying to scramble to his feet, had fallen again.
Nan, seizing him, hurled him to the soft grass by the roadside. Then she fell and the machine passed over her. The “grand ladies” had returned.
The car stopped almost instantly, and the chauffeur lifted the limp form of the gypsy girl in his arms.
“I don’t think she’s dead, Miss Barrington,” he said, “and if you ladies wish I’ll take her right to the county hospital as quickly as I can.”
The older woman spoke coldly. “No, I would not consider that I was doing my duty if I sent her to the county hospital. You may carry her into the house, Martin, and then procure a physician at once.”
“But, Miss Barrington, she’s nothing but a gypsy, and yours the proudest family in all San Seritos or anywhere for that,” the man said, with the freedom of an old servant.
Then, it was that the other lady spoke, and in her voice was the warmth of pity and compassion.
“Of course we’ll take the poor child into our home,” she said. “She may be only a gypsy girl, but no greater thing can anyone do than risk his own life for another.”
And so the seemingly lifeless Gypsy Nan was carried into the mansion-like home which stood in the garden-all-aglow that she had so loved.
CHAPTER VI.
ONLY A GYPSY-GIRL
When at last the girl opened her eyes, she looked about her in half dazed wonder. Where could she be? In a room so beautiful that she thought perhaps it was the gorigo heaven. The walls were the blue of the sky, and the draperies were the gold of the sun, while the wide windows framed glowing pictures of the sea and the garden.
For the first time in her roaming life, Nan was in a luxurious bed. Hearing the faint rustle of leaves at her side, she turned her head and saw a grey-haired, kindly faced woman, who was gowned in a soft silvery cashmere; a bow of pink fastened the creamy lace mantle about her shoulders. It was Miss Dahlia Barrington, who was reading a large book. Hearing a movement from the bed, she looked up with a loving smile, and closing the book, she placed it on a table and bent over the wondering eyed girl.
“Where am I, lady?” Nan asked.
“You are in the Barrington Manor, dear. My sister’s home and mine. Do you not recall what happened?”
“Yes, lady, was the little boy hurt, lady?”
“Indeed not, thanks to you,” Miss Dahlia said. “Tell me your name, dear, that I may know what to call you.”
The girl’s dark eyes grew wistful and she looked for a moment out toward the sea. Then she said in a very low voice. “I don’t know my name, only just Nan.” It was then she remembered that her race was scorned by the white gorigo, and, trying to rise, she added, “I must go now, lady. I must go back to Manna Lou. I’m only a gypsy. You won’t want me here.”
“Only a gypsy?” the little woman said gently, as she covered the brown hand lovingly with her own frail white one. “Dearie, you are just as much a child of God as I am or Miss Barrington is, or indeed, any-one.”
Nan could not understand the words, for they were strange to her, but she could understand the loving caress, and, being weary, she again closed her eyes, but a few moments later she was aroused by a cold, unloving voice that was saying: “Yes, doctor, I understand that she is a gypsy, and that probably she will steal everything that she can lay her hands on, but I will have things locked up when she is strong enough to be about. I consider that she was sent here by Providence, and that it is therefore my duty to keep the little heathen and try to civilize and Christianize her.”
It was the older Miss Barrington who was speaking. Nan, who had never stolen even a flower, was keenly hurt, and she determined to run away as soon as ever she could.
The chimes of the great clock in the lower hall were musically telling the midnight hour when the girl, seemingly strengthened by her determined resolve, sat up in bed and listened intently.
She had heard a noise beyond the garden hedge, and her heart leaped joyously. It was Binnie, her mottled pony, calling to her. All day long he had been waiting for her.
“I’m coming, Binnie darling,” the gypsy girl whispered. Then, climbing from the bed, she dressed quickly, and, fearing that if she opened the door she might be heard, she climbed through the window and on a vine covered trellis descended to the garden.
How beautiful it was in the moonlight, she thought, but she dared not pause. Down the path she sped and out at the gate in the hedge.
Binnie, overjoyed at seeing his mistress, whinnied again.
Gypsy Nan gave the small horse an impulsive hug as she whispered: “Binnie dearie, be quiet or some one will hear you. We must go away now, far, far away.”
The pony, seemingly to understand, trotted along on the hard sand with the gypsy girl clinging to his back, for the strength, which had seemed to come to her when she determined to run away, was gone and she felt weak and dazed. A few moments later she slipped from the pony’s back and lay unconscious on the sand while the faithful Binnie stood guard over her.
It was not until the next afternoon that she again opened her eyes and found herself once more in the beautiful blue and gold room and at her bedside sat the gentle Miss Dahlia gazing at her with an expression of mingled sorrow and loving tenderness.
“Little Nan,” she said, when she saw that the girl had awakened, “Why did you run away from me?”
“Not from you, lady, from the other one, who called me thief.”
Miss Dahlia glanced quickly toward the door as she said softly, “Dearie, my sister, Miss Barrington, has had many disappointments, and she seems to have lost faith in the world, but I am sure that she means to be kind.” Then the little lady added with a sigh, “I had so hoped you would want to stay with me, for I am very lonely now that Cherise is gone. She was nearly your age and this was her room, Shall I tell you about her?”
“Yes, lady.”
Miss Dahlia clasped the brown hand lovingly as she began.
“Long ago I had a twin brother, whom I dearly loved, but he married a very beautiful girl, who sang at concerts, and my sister, Miss Barrington, who sometimes seems unjust, would not receive her into our home, and my brother, who was deeply hurt, never communicated with us again. Many years passed and then one day a little girl of ten came to our door with a letter. She said that her name was Cherise and that her father and mother were dead. It was my dear brother’s child. My sister, Miss Barrington was in the city where she spends many of the autumn months, and so I kept the little thing and told no one about her. Those were indeed happy days for me. This room, which had dark furniture and draperies, I had decorated in blue and gold just for her, and how she loved it. With her golden curls and sweet blue eyes she looked like a fairy in her very own bower.
“Little Nan, you can’t know what a joy Cherise was to me. We spent long hours together in the garden with our books, for I would allow no