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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. Don't ever talk of Baryn to anyone else." "Yes, I know; but where is he, Grandy?" What could Winton answer? Some imbecility with the words "very far" in it; for he had not courage to broach the question of death, that mystery so hopelessly beyond the grasp of children, and of himself and others.
She wanted to be able to "go out riding" with Grandy and Mum and Baryn. And the first days were spent by them all more or less in fulfilling her new desires. Then term began, and Gyp sat down again to the long sharing of Summerhay with his other life. One afternoon at the beginning of November, the old Scotch terrier, Ossian, lay on the path in the pale sunshine.
And Baryn was walking in the study; he was so busy he had only given her one kiss. When she was gone, Gyp opened the window and let the wind full into her face. If only it would blow out of her heart this sickening sense that all was over, no matter how he might pretend to love her out of pity!
A tiny sound made him turn. Little Gyp was standing in the doorway. "Hallo!" he said. "Hallo, Baryn!" She came flying to him, and he caught her up so that she stood on his knees with the sunlight shining on her fluffed out hair. "Well, Gipsy! Who's getting a tall girl?" "I'm goin' to ride." "Ho, ho!" "Baryn, let's do Humpty-Dumpty!" "All right; come on!" He rose and carried her upstairs.
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