Gypsy drew her veil very closely about her face, and sat down in the darkest corner she could find. She seemed to be very much afraid of being recognized; for she shrank from every new-comer, and started every time the door opened.
“Train for Fitchburg, Rutland, Burlington!” shouted a voice, at last, and the words were drowned in the noise of hurrying feet.
Gypsy took a seat in the rear car, by the door, which was open, so that she was partially concealed from the view of the passengers. Just before the train started, a tall, whiskered gentleman walked slowly through the car, scanning the faces on each side of him.
“You haven’t seen a little girl here, dressed in drab, with black eyes and red cheeks, have you?” he asked, stopping just in front of Gypsy.
Several of the passengers shook their heads, and one old lady piped out on a very high key,—
“No, sir, I hain’t!”
The gentleman passed out, and shut the door. Gypsy held her breath. It was her uncle.
He looked troubled and anxious. Gypsy’s cheeks flushed,—a sudden impulse came over her to call him back,—she started and threw open the window, but the engine-bell rang, the train puffed slowly off, and her uncle disappeared in the crowd.
