"Then I'll stop here till I'm grown up, for I've told the truth already," returned Gipsy desperately.
She had kept up a brave front in opposition to Miss Poppleton's accusations; but after the key had turned in the lock, and the sound of footsteps died away down the passage, she sank wearily into a chair, and burying her hot face in her trembling hands, sobbed her heart out. She felt so utterly deserted, friendless and alone. There seemed nobody to whom she might turn for help or counsel, nobody in all the wide, wide world who belonged to her, and would defend her and take her part. Everything appeared to have conspired against her, and this final and most crushing blow was the last straw. Gipsy clenched her fists in an agony of hopelessness. "Oh, Dad, Dad! why don't you come back?" she moaned, and the utter futility of the question added to her misery. Outside the sun was shining and the birds were singing cheerily—they had their mates and their nests, while she had not even a relation to claim her. She could hear the voices of the girls as they took their eleven o'clock recreation; each one had a joyful home to return to, and parents or friends who would shield and protect her.
"I've never had a home!" choked Gipsy. "Oh! I wonder why some people are always left out of everything?"
Then she sat up suddenly, for there was the sound of a hesitating footstep in the passage. The key turned, the door opened gently, and Miss Edith, very nervous and excited, entered the room.
"Oh, Gipsy!" she began tremulously, "Miss Poppleton doesn't know I'm here, but I felt I must come. Oh! you poor, naughty, naughty child, why did you do it? How could you, Gipsy? I'd never have thought it possible. Oh, do be a good girl and own up! Miss Poppleton will forgive you if you'll only tell the truth—and you know you ought to! For the sake of what's right, be brave, and don't go on with this dreadful tissue of lies—it's too wicked and terrible!"
Miss Edith's eyes were full of tears. She laid her hand tenderly on the girl's shoulder, and looked at her with a world of reproach in her twitching face. If Miss Poppleton's scolding had been hard to endure, Miss Edith's concern was far worse. Gipsy seized the kind hand, and held it tightly.
"Oh, Miss Edie, I can't bear you to misjudge me!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Indeed, if you only knew, I am telling the absolute, whole truth. Have I ever told you an untruth before?"
"No, Gipsy. But this, alas! has been so conclusively proved."
"But has it? It all rests on my wet waterproof and galoshes. I don't know how they got wet, but I do know that I didn't go out in them, and if I said I did, why, then I should be really telling a falsehood."
Miss Edith sighed with disappointment, and drew her hand reluctantly away.