“I suppose you are here to tell me your father was Belas Salgo?” demanded the lady, harshly.
“I don’t know who you are, Madam,” said the Gypsy girl. “Are you the lady whom the Vareys say knows all about me?”
“Who are the Vareys?” returned Miss Carrington, quickly.
“They are English Gypsies. I was placed in their care when my father’s friends brought me to this country. They have held me prisoner but I have got away from them——”
“I do not understand you—I do not understand you,” insisted Miss Carrington, weakly. And now she did grope her way to a seat.
“Are you the teacher here whose name has in it eighteen letters?” asked the girl, anxiously. “I do not read your English, although I speak it. I learn to speak languages easily—it is a gift. My father had it.”
“True,” murmured Miss Carrington. “Belas Salgo was a wonderful linguist.”
“Does your name have the eighteen letters?” pursued Margit, eagerly. She repeated her story about the card on which was printed, or written, the name of the lady whom the Vareys had come to Centerport to see. Miss Carrington listened more quietly, and finally bowed.
“Yes. I am the lady. I am Miss Carrington,” she admitted.
“That is what those girls called you,” muttered Margit, but the teacher did not hear.