United States or Vietnam ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Women's eyes, which must not stare, cover more space than the eyes of men, which must not stare, but do; women's eyes have less method, too, seeing all things at once, instead of one thing at a time. Gyp had seen Summerhay long before he saw her; seen him come in and fold his opera hat against his white waistcoat, looking round, as if for someone.
Just as she had never felt it possible to admit the world into the secrets of her married life, so, now she did not consider the world at all. Only the thought of her father weighed on her conscience. He was back in town. And she felt that she must tell him. When Summerhay heard this he only said: "All right, Gyp, whatever you think best."
It was a glorious winter day and Gyp's friends were playing hockey on the little lake. Gyp had faced Miss Gray resentfully. "Please scan three pages, Miss Westley," Miss Gray had said, putting a book into Gyp's hands. And now, in the middle of them, Miss Gray was staring out across the snowy slopes of the school grounds, not hearing one word, and blinking real tears from her pale-blue eyes!
The picture was gone almost before he knew what he had seen. But it was knife-sharp. It was as though a hand fumbling over a blank wall had touched by accident a secret spring and a door had flown wide open, closing instantly. "I'm Gyp Labelle; If you dance with me You must dance to my tune Whatever it be." She jumped into the incessant music as a child jumps into a whirling skipping-rope.
"Gyp wouldn't stay," Phil explained. "I tied him up, but he chewed through the rope." "H'm," the captain grunted, "I guess he'd eat through a chain by the looks of him. He's about the toughest brute I ever set my eyes on. Does he ever eat people?" A hearty laugh from the boys was the only reply to the captain's sarcastic remark.
"Oh, yes, for the present; everybody knows Gyp no one will steal him. I have left him length of line enough to move around a little and eat grass, drink from the brook, or lie down. You can come after him early to-morrow morning." The little groom thought this a queer arrangement, but he was not in the habit of criticising his young mistress's actions.
He rode a great deal with the child, who, like her mother before her, was never so happy as in the saddle; but to Gyp he did not dare suggest it. She never spoke of horses, never went to the stables, passed all the days doing little things about the house, gardening, and sitting at her piano, sometimes playing a little, sometimes merely looking at the keys, her hands clasped in her lap.
He was very quiet, and the teacher questioned if he were planning mischief. The little pupils watched him, and wondered when his restlessness would begin. His teacher wondered, too, but Gyp kept his eyes on his book, and appeared not to know that he was being watched. For the first time since he had been forced to attend school, he had a perfect spelling lesson.
Pityingly, and more like a little woman than like the child that she was, she spoke to comfort him. For a moment he felt abashed that he had so plainly shown the longing in his heart, then as she asked again, he cried: "I want to be someone. I want a chance to be something besides Gyp, the gypsy boy."
During those weeks, Gyp had never been free of the feeling that it was just a lull, of forces held up in suspense, and the moment they were back in their house, this feeling gathered density and darkness, as rain gathers in the sky after a fine spell. She had often thought of Daphne Wing, and had written twice, getting in return one naive and pathetic answer: 'DEAR MRS. FIORSEN,
Word Of The Day