In fact, over Susan’s head, he and Grandmother exchanged glances which seemed to say they did not altogether understand what had happened.
But Susan saw nothing of this, and, breakfast over, she and Grandfather started at once down the lane to see what her mysterious present might be.
“Grandfather, where is Snuff?” asked Susan. “I haven’t seen him this morning.”
“No more have I,” answered Grandfather.
He whistled again and again, and Susan called, but no Snuff appeared in answer to these familiar signals.
On the school porch lay a dark bundle. It was a large bundle, and it moved slightly from side to side. As they drew nearer they heard a wail, and Susan immediately recognized the cry.
“It’s Gentilla,” she called out. “It’s Gentilla crying.”
Yes, it was Gentilla, so securely wrapped in a big gray shawl that had been wound tightly about her and pinned in place that she could move neither hands nor feet, and could only rock herself from side to side as she lay on the hard boards of the porch floor.
Grandfather and Susan helped her out of the blanket, and Gentilla tried to tell her story, but all she could say was:
“All gone away,—riding.”