Mr. Lee carefully led his horse through the woods to the muddy road, and then, sitting up in front, drove his old "gry" up the hill toward Featherbed Lane.

In the meantime Susan and Phil were looking round the van in surprise and delight.

"It's like a little playhouse," said Susan, squeezing Phil's hand. "Oh, I wish I lived in a gypsy van all the time."

Opposite the door, in the very front of the van, were two beds, one above the other like berths on a ship, and broad enough, each one, to hold three or four gypsy children at once, if need be, and as, in fact, they very often did. There was a little cookstove, whose pipe wandered out of the side of the van in a most unusual way. And alongside the stove was a table, hanging by hinges from the wall. A high chest of drawers and two chairs completed the furniture of the van, which looked very much like a state-room and felt somewhat like one, too, as it swayed over the hillocks and ruts in the road.

Up Featherbed Lane bounced the van, and there on the porch stood Grandmother and Miss Liza, both with white cheeks and anxious faces, while Grandfather came hurrying from the barn where he had been harnessing old Nero with a speed that quite upset the dignity of that staid Roman-nosed beast.

"Where were you, children?" cried Miss Liza in greeting, twisting the corner of her ap.r.o.n as she spoke. "I ran up here in all that downpour, and I didn't see a sign of you on the way."

"My berries are gone," called Phil. "The big boy ate them. And I was afraid. And we were inside a tent."

"They are gypsies," said Susan in a low voice to Grandmother, who was carefully feeling her all over. "They live in a tent. And, inside, that van is just like a doll's house. Their name is Lee. I wish I lived in a van; it's better than a tent, I think. And they have the nicest little girl you ever saw. Her name is Gentilla Lee. She likes me, I know she does, Grandmother. I want to go see her again."

"You are wet in spots, child, and damp all over," was all Grandmother replied. "Come straight in the house and let me put dry clothes on you."

Grandfather and the gypsy had been talking together all this time, and now Grandfather put something into Mr. James Lee's hand that made his white teeth gleam in a smile, and caused him to drive first to the store in the village before returning to his hungry family in their tent in the woods.

Then Phil was escorted home; Miss Liza was driven back to Miss Lunette, who might be worried sick by her absence, Miss Liza thought, but who proved to have slept soundly through the storm; and Susan, her tongue wagging, was put into a hot bath and dressed in dry clothes from head to foot before Grandfather returned.

"I want to go back and see the gypsies," Susan teased the next day. "I want to see Gentilla. Please, Grandfather, take me to see the gypsies."

So Grandmother baked a cake in her largest tin, and at the village store Grandfather and Susan purchased several yards of bright red hair-ribbon.

With these offerings they made their way to the gypsy tent, and received a hospitable welcome.

The van, with all its conveniences, was willingly displayed, and Grandfather was invited to test with his hand the softness of the beds, the like of which, Mrs. Lee declared, was not to be found in kings'

palaces. Privately, Grandfather believed this to be true, but, of course, he didn't say it aloud.

To-day, with the sun shining, and the dogs gnawing a bone at a safe distance in the gra.s.s, the tent seemed to Susan even more attractive than before. She thought with scorn of her own white little room at home, and wished with all her heart that she had been born a gypsy child. Even the two bold little girls seemed pleasanter, and indeed, delighted with their new hair-ribbons and awed by Grandfather's presence, they were more quiet and well-behaved, at least during Susan's call.

The big boy silently devoured his share of Grandmother's cake, and then, with a hungry look still gleaming in his eyes, gazed so longingly at the crumbs remaining that Grandfather took pity upon him. With a turn of his hand he flipped a piece of money at the lad so that, with sure aim, he struck the boy's bare foot.

"Go buy something to eat with it," commanded Grandfather.

Pulling at his tangled hair in a rough bow of thanks, the boy, waiting for no second bidding, vanished among the trees and was seen no more by his family that afternoon.

Mr. James Lee entertained Grandfather as one gentleman should another.

He had many stories of adventure to tell, and he even brought out his fiddle from under the beds and played several lively gypsy tunes.

"Shall I tell the little miss's fortune?" asked Mrs. Lee, with a half-sly look, and she laughed outright when Grandfather shook his head with a smile.

"I believe in your fortune-telling just about as much as you do," he answered. "My granddaughter seems perfectly happy this moment. She doesn't need any better fortune than she has."

Nor did she, for she and Gentilla, still carrying the squash baby, had become good friends and were enjoying their play together equally well.

They walked off, hand in hand, Susan helping Gentilla over the rough places and mothering her to her heart's delight. She washed her new baby's face and hands in the brook and dried them upon her own handkerchief. She told her about Flip, and s...o...b..ll, and Snuff, to which Gentilla listened with a roll of her big gray eyes. She, herself, didn't talk very much, but Susan quite made up for this lack, and had begun to teach her "Two little blackbirds sat upon a hill," when she heard Grandfather calling and knew that she must go.

"I don't want to leave Gentilla," said Susan, as she joined the group before the tent. "Do you suppose I can come and play with her to-morrow?" "Perhaps Mrs. Lee will let Gentilla come and play with you,"

answered Mr. Whiting, who thought Susan better off at home than in the gypsy camp.

So it was settled that Mr. James Lee would bring Gentilla to-morrow to spend the day, and Susan went home with a happy heart, chattering to Grandfather about her new-found friends.

"Wouldn't you like to be a gypsy, Grandfather?" asked she. "Wouldn't you like to live in a tent? Why isn't everybody a gypsy? It's such a nice way to live."

"Well, Susan, most people think it better to stay in one place instead of wandering over the face of the earth," answered Grandfather. "And among other things, they want their children to go to school and to church, too."

"I don't care so much about going to school," said Susan, honestly. "I know I would like to live in a tent and ride around in that van."

"It seems pleasant enough now, while it is warm weather," admitted Grandfather. "But what about cold, and rain, and snow, and not any too much to eat?"

"They were hungry, weren't they?" pondered Susan. "How they did like Grandmother's cake!"

That night at supper Susan looked round the pleasant, well-lighted room, with its table spread with good things to eat. She thought of the tent in the woods, the trees standing tall and black about it, and the near-by brook gurgling over its stones without a pause. It seemed dark and dreary and lonely, and with a little shudder Susan bent down and whispered to Snuff:

"I wouldn't have us be gypsies, Snuff, for anything in the world."

And when she went to bed, she astonished Grandmother by saying in the midst of her prayers:

"Thank you, G.o.d, for not making Grandmother a gypsy, because then I wouldn't have any apple sauce for my supper."

CHAPTER VII-IN THE SCHOOLHOUSE

Susan and Gentilla were at play in the garden, walking Indian fashion up one path and down the other between the rows of summer vegetables. The little girls held their arms outstretched to keep their balance, and, now and then, with shrill little screams, one or the other would almost, but not quite, topple over.

Occasionally Gentilla, unsteady on her feet, made a misstep among the beets and peas, and once she sat down upon a cabbage. But, as she was as light as a feather, it certainly did the cabbage no harm, and perhaps a great deal of good for all we know to the contrary.

"Gentilla," said Susan, struck with a happy thought, "let's go play on the schoolhouse steps."

"Yes, let's," said Gentilla agreeably. She did not know where the schoolhouse steps were, but she would have gone as willingly to the North Pole if Susan had suggested it.

She and Susan had become warm friends. Gentilla spent almost every day at the house on Featherbed Lane, and Grandmother and Grandfather and even Miss Liza had grown fond of the little gypsy girl because of her happy disposition and loving little ways. Gentilla was not a great talker, but she made smiles and a dimple and funny little bobs of her head take the place of speech. She liked to steal up behind you and place a kiss as soft as thistledown in the palm of your hand. She rubbed gently up against one as a little kitten would, and by her pats and what Susan called "smoothings" told you how much she loved you without a single word.

"She is a good child," said Grandmother. "I can hardly believe that she is a real gypsy child. She doesn't seem like one to me."

"She does wind herself round your heart," confided Miss Liza. "If I lived alone I would almost think of adopting her, though I don't know whether her people would be willing to part with her."

"Mr. Whiting says they are a little jealous because we do so much for Gentilla, and not for their own little girls. He thinks we haven't been very wise," answered Mrs. Whiting. "And now that you have made Gentilla these ap.r.o.ns, I don't know what they will say."

From the shady back porch, where Grandmother and Miss Liza sat rocking and sewing together, it looked as if two Susans, one large and one small, were walking down the path toward them. For Gentilla wore, fitted to her small person, a dress Susan had outgrown, and on her feet a pair of Susan's shoes, the toes well stuffed with cotton.

"Grandmother, we are going to play," called Susan. "And I want to whisper in your ear."

"Can't you say it out loud?" inquired Grandmother mildly. "It isn't polite to whisper, Susan."