She rolled her big gray eyes and waved her tiny hand, and that was the best that she could do to explain her presence there so early in the morning.
There was a strange look on Grandfather’s face, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and pursed up his mouth as if to whistle as he stared at the little schoolhouse. For from every window the panes of glass had been neatly removed, and a glance within showed that the old stove had disappeared also.
“You take Gentilla up to the house, Susan,” said he. “I’m going down the road a ways.”
“Yes, I will,” said Susan. “But, Grandfather, where is my present?”
“Perhaps Gentilla is the present,” called back Mr. Whiting, already striding down the hill.
And half an hour later when he returned to the house, Grandfather sank into a chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and began to laugh.
“Do tell me what it is all about,” said Grandmother, coming out on the porch, duster in hand. “The children are over at Mrs. Vane’s, and they came up here with such a story that I don’t know what to think:—Gentilla wrapped in a shawl, and panes of glass gone, and I don’t know what all.”
Grandfather nodded in agreement as she spoke.
“Yes, sir,” said he. “They told the truth. The glass is gone and the stove is gone from the schoolhouse, and what is more, the gypsies themselves have gone from the grove. They have cleared out bag and baggage, and have left Gentilla to us.”
“Do you mean to tell me that they have deserted that child?” demanded Grandmother. “What kind of people are they, anyway, to do such a thing as that?”