And after this dreadful speech, n.o.body spoke.

Susan felt Grandfather looking at her over his spectacles. She saw Grandmother take the saucer pie and set it aside. And then, somehow, n.o.body seemed to remember that Susan was at the table at all. She sat there, the lump in her throat growing bigger and bigger and with a strange p.r.i.c.kly feeling in the end of her nose, until the tears began to chase one another down her cheeks. And then Susan slipped from her chair and ran upstairs.

On the floor near the door lay innocent s...o...b..ll. Susan pushed her to one side with such force that s...o...b..ll flew under the bed and struck the wall with a thump. Then Susan threw herself on the bed beside Flip and clasped her in her arms.

First she cried until she couldn't cry any more, and then she whispered the whole story into Flip's ear. "n.o.body loves me but you, Flippy,"

finished Susan with a gasp. Already she felt comforted, for, no matter what happened, Flippy was always on her side.

After a little, she rolled off the bed, and stood looking out of the window into the hot garden below. There was not a breath of air stirring. The leaves of the fruit trees scarcely moved, the sky seemed to swim and dance before her eyes, and the only sound to be heard was the shrill singing of the locusts in the trees.

It was then that Susan said, "mean, mean, mean," and she meant Grandmother, and Grandfather, and every one in the whole round world except Flippy Whiting.

Susan twisted the shade cord and sniffed, and tried to think of all the cross and disagreeable things Grandmother and Grandfather had ever done to her.

But there was something strange about those thoughts. They were as contrary as Susan herself. For all she could remember were the times when Grandmother and Grandfather had been kind and patient and good, and little by little quite a different feeling came over her.

"Grandfather always takes me driving with him when he can," thought she.

"And Grandmother made the new dress for Flip; and she brought me a paint-box yesterday from Green Valley."

And suddenly Susan began to cry again.

"But this time it is sorry tears. The other time it was mad ones,"

thought she to herself, for Susan was quite as sharp as are most little girls to know when she was in the right or in the wrong.

Downstairs she flew, and flung her arms about Grandmother.

"Oh, oh, oh," moaned Susan, burying her face in Grandmother's neck. "Oh, Grandmother, Grandmother." And if she had stood upon the church steps and shouted, "I'm sorry," to the whole village, she couldn't have said it more plainly.

Grandmother understood her quite well, and all she said was:

"I couldn't believe that my Susan would be so rude to me."

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it," whispered Susan, and, sealing the peace with a kiss, she went in search of Grandfather.

He sat on the porch, reading his paper, and he must have heard all that she said, for he opened his arms, and without a word she snuggled down upon his lap. With both hands she pulled his face round to hers and placed a kiss upon what she called "my very own spot," none other than the tip of Grandfather's nose.

"Promise you will never let any one else kiss you there," Susan had once begged.

"I promise," Grandfather had answered with a laugh. And no doubt he kept his word.

But now, he put his hand into his baggy coat pocket and pulled out a plump summer squash.

"I thought this would make a nice dolly for you," said he. "I picked it up after dinner in the garden." And with his knife he deftly cut eyes and nose and mouth, and handed over the simpering orange-colored baby to the delighted Susan.

"Now we will go down to the office," said he, "and let Grandmother have a nap this afternoon. I have to see a man on business, but you can play around the schoolhouse while I'm busy."

At the roadside gate they stopped a moment "to catch the breeze," said Grandfather, pulling off his hat and mopping his brow.

A man, whistling a lively tune, came up the road, and surely he felt the heat but little, for he wore a brown velveteen jacket and had knotted about his throat a bright red handkerchief. His face was brown and his soft hat showed dark curling hair underneath the brim.

Grandfather eyed him shrewdly, and, as the man pa.s.sed the gate, he spoke.

"Sarishan," said Grandfather.

The man stopped short and looked Grandfather straight in the eye.

"Sarishan, rye," answered the man.

Grandfather Whiting laughed and shook his head.

"No, no," said he. "I'm no rye, and 'sarishan' is all the Romany I know.

But I wanted to see whether you would answer me. There are not many Romanies to be seen about here nowadays. Are there?"

The man shook his head and moved on. After a pause, he began his whistling again.

"What is it, Grandfather?" asked Susan. "What were you saying? Who is that man?"

"He is a gypsy," answered Grandfather, watching the man out of sight, past the schoolhouse and round the bend of the road. "I thought so when I saw him, so I spoke to him in Romany or gypsy talk. I said, 'Sarishan.' That means, 'good-day.' I'm surprised he answered me. They generally pretend not to understand."

"Sarishan," repeated Susan. She liked the soft pretty word. "But what did he call you, Grandfather?"

"He called me 'rye.' That means a gentleman. A Romany rye is a gypsy gentleman. Some people like gypsy life, Susan, and know and understand the gypsies better than others do. Sometimes they slip away and live with the gypsies for a time. And this man thought I was one of them because I spoke to him in Romany."

Susan wanted to ask Grandfather what gypsy life was like. But the man Grandfather was to see on business drove up just then, so she slipped across the road to the deserted schoolhouse, and, bringing out her own little broom which she kept under the porch, she proceeded to give the steps and the walk a thorough sweeping.

This housewifely task ended, she seated herself on the steps, for she thought the squash baby needed an afternoon nap. Tied round the handle of the broom was a little blue cloth that Susan used for a duster. It was new and clean, so she fastened it round the neck of the squash baby as a cloak, and so rocked the baby to and fro and hummed a little song.

It was quiet on the schoolhouse steps. The shadows crept silently across the road, so silently that they did not disturb a little head pillowed on the hard boards of the porch.

The flowers and gra.s.ses in the neglected yard stirred and rustled in the afternoon breeze, just beginning to spring up, but all they murmured was "Hush! Hush!" The bees hummed and buzzed busily about among the flowers, one inquisitive young fellow, who knew no better, actually lighting on Susan's gay hair-ribbon, as if he thought it a new kind of blossom. But the little mother did not stir, for the very song the bees sang was a lullaby.

So that Susan's nap was long and refreshing, and when at last she woke and stretched her stiff little arms and legs, she discovered that she was hungry.

"You stay here, baby," said she, firmly planting the ever-smiling squash baby upon the steps. "I'll be back in a minute with a cooky for you."

Susan trudged leisurely up Featherbed Lane. Near the end she halted, and, leaning on the garden wall, stared with interest over at the Tallman house.

The sound of crying was plainly to be heard floating out upon the air.

The dismal wails grew louder, and then the door opened and Phil's father appeared.

He walked with a determined air to the big lilac bush near the foot of the steps, and, pulling out his pen-knife, carefully selected and cut off a stout little branch.

"It's a switch," thought Susan, terror-stricken. "Oh, me, it's a switch."

At this moment the door was flung open again, and out upon the porch darted a little figure. Its face was red, its arms were whirling, it was dancing up and down and crying all at once. But, nevertheless, as Susan peered closely, she saw that it was Phil. There was no doubt about that.

His friend on the other side of the fence held her breath at the sight.

Oh, how sorry she was for him! She knew just how badly he felt. She, too, would have been dancing in a frenzy if, a little earlier that afternoon, she had seen Grandfather cutting a switch.