Here, too, perhaps this new child
would live amongst the old familiars. And the whim seized her to face
her hour in her old nursery, not in the room where she had slept as a
girl. She would not like the daintiness of that room deflowered. Let
it stay the room of her girlhood. But in the nursery--there was safety,
comfort! And when she had been at Mildenham a week, she made Betty
change her over.
No one in that house was half so calm to look at in those days as Gyp.
Betty was not guiltless of sitting on the stairs and crying at odd
moments. Mrs. Markey had never made such bad soups. Markey so far forgot
himself as frequently to talk. Winton lamed a horse trying an impossible
jump that he might get home the quicker, and, once back, was like an
unquiet spirit. If Gyp were in the room, he would make the pretence of
wanting to warm his feet or hand, just to stroke her shoulder as he went
back to his chair. His voice, so measured and dry, had a ring in
it, that too plainly disclosed the anxiety of his heart. Gyp, always
sensitive to atmosphere, felt cradled in all the love about her.
Wonderful that they should all care so much! What had she done for
anyone, that people should be so sweet--he especially, whom she had so
grievously distressed by her wretched marriage? She would sit staring
into the fire with her wide, dark eyes, unblinking as an owl's at
night--wondering what she could do to make up to her father, whom
already once she had nearly killed by coming into life.
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