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.

As the days went on it became almost impossible to be so unhappy without
telling someone. Often, when she and Jackie were alone together, her
heart was so full that the words were on the very tip of her tongue, but
fear kept them back. It was a heart-rending thing just now to feed the
chickens and to hear Mrs Vallance talk so unconsciously about them, and
say how man