Grandfather nodded in agreement as she spoke.

"Yes, sir," said he. "They told the truth. The gla.s.s is gone and the stove is gone from the schoolhouse, and what is more, the gypsies themselves have gone from the grove. They have cleared out bag and baggage, and have left Gentilla to us."

"Do you mean to tell me that they have deserted that child?" demanded Grandmother. "What kind of people are they, anyway, to do such a thing as that?"

"Gypsies," answered Grandfather tersely. "She wasn't their own child, you know. And they were always jealous of the way we treated her. I suppose they argued that, if we were so fond of her, we would be glad of the chance to take care of her. I've telephoned, so that people will be on the lookout for them, but the chances are we shall never hear of them again."

"I wouldn't want Gentilla to go back to them after the way they have treated her," said Grandmother indignantly.

"No, except that she is one of them, after all," answered Mr. Whiting.

"Well, we will keep the little girl for a time. We needn't be in any great hurry to decide what to do. At any rate, Susan will enjoy a visit from her."

And that Susan proceeded to do at once. She and Phil and Gentilla spent a long and happy day together.

But that night, with Gentilla tucked snugly in the big spare-room bed across the hall, Susan was so excited she couldn't sleep. She twisted and turned and tossed, and at last pattered downstairs for a drink of water.

In the kitchen, to her surprise, she found Grandfather feeding Snuff, who had been missing all day. Snuff ate his good supper as if he were starving. He was covered with mud, an old rope was tied round his neck, and he was so stiff and lame he could scarcely hobble.

Susan waited until Grandfather had seen Snuff safely at rest upon a comfortable bed of straw in the barn. Then upstairs they went together, and Grandfather lay down on the outside of Susan's bed beside her and took her hand in his.

"Where do you think Snuff was all day, Grandfather?" began Susan. "I wish he could talk and tell us."

"So do I," said Grandfather heartily, "Did I ever tell you about a dog I had when I was a little boy-"

"Yes, you did," interrupted Susan. "Thank you, Grandfather, but I know all about him. His name was Nick and he was black all over with not a white spot anywhere. Grandfather, do you think Mr. James Lee took the stove from the schoolhouse?"

"I think he did," answered Grandfather briefly.

"And the gla.s.s out of the windows?"

"And the gla.s.s out of the windows."

"What will he do with them?"

"Sell them, I think," said Grandfather.

"But they didn't belong to him?" questioned Susan.

"No; they belonged to the town."

"Then he stole!" exclaimed Susan, pulling her hand from Grandfather's so that she might shake an accusing finger in his face.

"It looks that way," admitted Mr. Whiting.

"But you wouldn't steal."

"I hope not," returned Grandfather. "But you must remember, Susan, that the gypsies don't go to school or to church, and so they don't know the difference between right and wrong as well as the people who do."

"They ought to go," said Susan morally. "I go. Everybody ought to go.

I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to teach Gentilla Bible stories right away to-morrow. How long will she stay here? Forever?"

"No, not forever. I don't know how long. Now you must go to sleep, or Grandmother will be up here after us."

"I will," promised Susan drowsily. "But, you know, Grandfather, I think they took Snuffy, too, and that is where he was all day. Don't you?"

Grandfather nodded in the darkness. He had been thinking the same thought, but he tiptoed out of the room without another word, and a moment later Susan fell asleep.

Early the next morning she began to train Gentilla. She made her say "thank you," and "please," and "excuse me," until the poor little visitor was so bewildered that she couldn't answer the simplest question. She forced her to listen to Bible stories which she didn't know very well herself, so poky and long-drawn-out that, if Gentilla hadn't had a happy way of falling into little cat-naps whenever the story was too dull to bear, I don't know what would have become of her.

In her own behavior Susan was so moral and proper, and so unlike her own lovable little self, that Grandmother, though she didn't say a word, couldn't help thinking, "If this keeps up, I shall have to go away on a visit. Only I know it won't last."

And it didn't last. It was too unnatural. Of course it didn't last.

After dinner Grandmother asked Susan to go to the store for two spools of black thread.

"Your Grandfather has torn the pocket in his coat," said she. "Gentilla will wait with me until you come back, for she walks slowly and I am in a hurry."

"Yes, Grandmother," said Susan, primly, hoping they were admiring her manners.

She walked quickly, and was back in a short time with two spools of _white_ thread.

"But I told you _black_," said Grandmother. "I can't mend your Grandfather's coat with white thread. I will keep these spools, but you will have to go back for black ones. Remember what I want it for, and then you won't make another mistake."

Gentilla, really enjoying herself alone with Grandmother, sat on the shady porch, comfortably holding Flip.

The sun was hot, and the road was dusty, and it is not pleasant when one is trying to be an example to be told that one has made a mistake. Susan felt aggrieved.

"You said white spools, Grandmother," she answered bluntly. "I know you said white."

Now this was not at all like Susan (perhaps the strain of being an example was beginning to tell) and Mrs. Whiting stared at her in surprise.

"Do you mean to be saucy, Susan?" she asked, after a pause. "Go on your errand at once, without another word."

Susan turned on her heel and swallowed hard. She wanted to scream, or throw something at somebody, but she didn't dare do anything but walk slowly down the lane on her errand.

When she returned, Grandmother took the spools and went into the house.

Gentilla, still cuddling Flip, looked up with a smile, but she received a black look in return.

"You can't hold Flip," said Susan, glowering at her. "You may have s...o...b..ll, but Flip is mine." And she roughly seized Flippy to pull her out of Gentilla's arms.

But Gentilla was not a gypsy child for nothing. If Susan could pull and slap, she could scratch and kick. So when Grandmother, at sounds of the scuffle, looked out of the window, she saw the model teacher and her pupil engaged in a hand-to-hand battle, with innocent Flip nearly torn in two between them.

"Susan Whiting!" called Grandmother.

And at the sound of her voice, with a mighty push that sent Gentilla backward upon the floor, Susan wrenched Flip from her grasp, and turned and faced the window.

"Put down your doll," commanded Grandmother. "Now, go upstairs to your room and wait there for me."