  Again it was Saturday. Every day during the past week Robert had walked, only a few steps at first, but each day going a little farther. Too, each afternoon he had eagerly watched at the pepper tree for the appearance of his Lady Red Bird, but she had not come. “Perhaps she only comes on Saturday,” he thought as he sat alone in his wheeled chair waiting and watching. Suddenly a rose hurled over the hedge and fell on his book. “Oho, Lady Red Bird,” he called joyously. “I can’t see you, but I know that you are there. Please come over on this side.” The gate opened ever so little and Nan peered through. Then skipping in front of him, she cried, with her dark eyes aglow, “Why, Robert Widdemere, you don’t look like the same boy. What have you done? You look almost well.” “I am,” the lad replied, smiling radiantly. “I am going to be well enough to ride up the mountain road with you on Thanksgiving morning, and then I will surely have something to be thankful for.” Gypsy Nan clapped her hands. “And we’ll ride a race on the hard sand close to the sea.” “Great!” ejaculated the lad. “That will be two weeks from to-day. I’ll have to order my portion of beefsteak and mashed potatoes doubled, I guess.” Then he added with a merry twinkle, “Promise me that you’ll wear the gypsy-looking dress.” “Oh, I will,” Nan cried, “for I love it.” Then she added, “Robert Widdemere, you don’t believe that I am truly a gypsy, do you?” The lad shook his head and his brown eyes were laughing. “Why, of course not Lady Red Bird! Gypsies are interesting enough, in their way, but they are not like you. They are thieves—” The girl sprang up from the stump on which she had been seated, and her eyes flashed. “They are not all thieves, Robert Widdemere,” she cried, “and many of them are just as good and kind as gorigo could be. Manna Lou was a beautiful young gypsy woman long ago, when I first remember her, and she could have had a much happier life if she had hot chosen of her own free will to care for that poor little cripple boy Tirol, and for the motherless Nan. I wish I had not run away from the caravan now. I hate the gorigo, who always call my people thieves!” Then turning to the amazed and speechless lad, she inquired with flashing eyes, “Are there no thieves among your people? Indeed there are, but they are not all called thieves! My Manna Lou taught me not to steal, and I have never taken even a flower that did not belong to me. I’m going back, Robert Widdemere! I’m going back to Manna Lou.” The girl burst into a passion of tears as she turned toward the gate. The lad, deeply touched, forgetting his weakness, was at her side and placing a hand on her arm, he implored, “Oh Lady Red Bird, forgive me. I see now how wrong it is to condemn a whole race because of the few. Promise me that you won’t go back. It is knowing you that has helped me to get well, and if you go away, I will be lonelier than ever.” The boy had returned to his chair and he looked suddenly pale and tired. Nan’s heart was touched, and she said, “Robert Widdemere, now that you know I am really a gypsy, do you still care for my friendship?” “I care more to be your friend, than for anything else in the whole world,” the lad said sincerely. “Then I’ll not go back to the caravan,” she promised, a smile flashing through the tears. “Goodbye, Robert Widdemere. I’ll come again tomorrow.” These two little dreamed that the nurse, Miss Squeers, hidden behind a clump of shrubbery, had seen and heard all that had passed, nor could they know that upon returning to the house, she had at once written to the lad’s mother. When on the day following, Nan returned to the little gate in the hedge, Robert Widdemere was not seen. The nurse, having overheard the planned meeting had ordered the horses hitched to the easiest carriage and had insisted that the lad accompany her on a drive. He was restless when he realized that they were not to return at the hour he had expected his Lady Red Bird to visit him, and indeed, when at last, they did turn into the long winding drive leading to his handsome home, he was so worn and weary from having fretted because he had been forced to do something he did not wish to do, that he had a fever and had to go at once to bed. Miss Squeers sent for the doctor and drawing him aside, she confided all she had found out. If she had expected an ally, she was greatly disappointed. “That’s great!” Doctor Wainridge exclaimed, his kindly face shining. “Nothing could be better. A tonic is powerless compared to a lad’s interest in a lassie. But if he was so much better only yesterday, because of this friendship, what has caused the set-back?” Miss Squeer’s thin lips were pressed together in a hard line. “Doctor Wainridge, you evidently do not realize that this young person is a real gypsy. You wouldn’t have doubted it if you could have seen her black eyes flash yesterday when Robert Widdemere spoke disparagingly of the race.” The physician looked interested, and somewhat amused. “Indeed, I could imagine it!” he said with assurance. “I had a gypsy boy for a patient once and a fiery tempered lad, he was, but I liked him. The fact is, I admire much about their life, not everything of course. They do a little too much horse trading, and sometimes they even trade without the owners being aware of it.” At that he laughed, appearing not to notice that a ramrod could not be standing stiffer or more erect than was Miss Squeers. He continued as though amused at the memory. “It was down south when I was practicing there. One of the southern colonels had a thoroughbred horse. He boasted about it on all occasions, but when the gypsies came and passed they had traded an old boney nag with the colonel. He found it in the paddock where his prize racer had been locked in securely the night before.” “Well,” Miss Squeers snapped, “I hope you are not upholding such conduct.” The good-natured physician shook his head, but his eyes were still twinkling. “No, indeed not!” he said emphatically. “That manner of horse trading is not to be condoned in the slightest degree.” “Trading?” With biting sarcasm Miss Squeers spoke the word. “Stealing, you mean. That’s what they all are, thieves and liars.” Then with a self-righteous expression on her drawn, white face, the woman continued: “Mrs. Widdemere puts her entire trust in my judgment and until she comes to relieve me, I shall not permit her son to again speak to that gypsy girl.” The doctor narrowed his eyes, gazing thoughtfully at the speaker. When she paused he exclaimed “Good Lord, Miss Squeers, what possible harm could a girl of thirteen or fourteen do a sixteen year old boy? I have heard the story of the protege of the Misses Barrington. Indeed it has been rumored about that she is very beautiful and rarely talented. My wife is well acquainted with the woman who is instructing the girl on the harp and she has only enthusiastic praise for the gifts with which she has been endowed. Nature is the mother of us all, and is no respector of persons.” “Then you advise me to permit this friendship to continue even though I know it would greatly displease Mrs. Widdemere who is among the proudest of proud women?” The doctor thoughtfully twirled the heavy charm on his watch chain. “If we have to choose between losing our patient and displeasing a vain mother, I prefer the latter. You can see for yourself that the boy has had a set-back. This is most discouraging to me. And, as his physician, I shall have to ask, as long as I have the case, and the boy’s mother cabled me to take it, that he be given his freedom in the matter. Do not again force him to go for a drive with you unless it is his wish to do so. I will call again tomorrow.” The nurse watched him go with a steely expression in her sharp green-blue eyes. Next she walked to a calender and marked on it the probable day when she might expect a response to the letter she had written Mrs. Widdemere. Then she went upstairs and found her patient tossing restlessly. After all, she decided it might be better for her to follow the doctor’s orders. She would not have long to wait for orders from one higher in authority. |
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