"But, oh," breathed Gwendolyn, her bosom heaving, "why don't you feel her pulse?"
"It's—it's terrible," faltered Gwendolyn's father. His agonized look was fixed upon the road.
Now the road was indeed terrible. For there were great chasms in it—chasms that yawned darkly; that opened and closed as if by the rush and receding of water. Gwendolyn's mother crossed them in flitting leaps, as from one roof-top to another. Her daintily shod feet scarcely touched the road, so swift was her going. A second, and she was whipped from sight at the Barn's corner. About her slender figure, as it disappeared, dust mingled with the smoke—mingled and swirled, funnel-like in shape, with a wide base and a narrow top, like the picture of a water-spout in the back of Gwendolyn's geography.
The Piper came back, wiping his forehead. "What does she care about a poke!" he scolded, flinging himself down irritably. "Huh! All she thinks about is what They say!"
At that Gwendolyn's spirits revived. Somehow, instantly and clearly, she knew what should be done!
But when she opened her mouth, she found that she could not speak. Her lips were dry. Her tongue would not move. She could only swallow.
Then, just as she was on the point of throwing herself down and giving way utterly to tears, she felt a touch on her hand—a furry touch. Next, something was slipped into her grasp. It was the lip-case!
"Well, Mr. Piper," she cried out, "what do They say?"
They were close by, standing side by side, gazing at nothing. For their eyes were wide open, their faces expression-less.
Gwendolyn's father addressed them. "I never asked my wife to drop that sort of thing," he said gravely, "—for Gwendolyn's sake. You might, I suppose." One hand was in his pocket.