She had not picked up much strength, was shadowy as yet, and if
her face was taken unawares, it was the saddest face one could see. Her
chief preoccupation was not being taken unawares. Alas! To Winton, her
smile was even sadder. He was at his wits' end about her that winter and
spring. She obviously made the utmost effort to keep up, and there was
nothing to do but watch and wait. No use to force the pace. Time alone
could heal--perhaps. Meanwhile, he turned to little Gyp, so that they
became more or less inseparable.
Spring came and passed. Physically, Gyp grew strong again, but since
their return to Mildenham, she had never once gone outside the garden,
never once spoken of The Red House, never once of Summerhay. Winton had
hoped that warmth and sunlight would bring some life to her spirit, but
it did not seem to. Not that she cherished her grief, appeared, rather,
to do all in her power to forget and mask it. She only had what used to
be called a broken heart. Nothing to be done. Little Gyp, who had been
told that "Baryn" had gone away for ever, and that she must "never speak
of him for fear of making Mum sad," would sometimes stand and watch her
mother with puzzled gravity. She once remarked uncannily to Winton:
"Mum doesn't live with us, Grandy; she lives away somewhere, I think. Is
it with Baryn?"
Winton stared, and answered:
"Perhaps it is, sweetheart; but don't say that to anybody but me.
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