“I do so want to take my little pistol, and shoot the heads off the little birds and squirrels, for I may forget how to shoot if I don’t.”
Mrs. Platts shuddered at the thought of so young a girl talking so freely of using firearms, but since Zula seemed to desire it so much she consented, first having gained a promise that she would be very careful, at which Zula gave a half-derisive smile. Truly there were many evils to root out of the girl’s nature, and Mrs. Platts had grown to the belief that it was her mission to do it, but she prayed for strength, believing that education and culture alone would do the work of reform, and though it would take patience on her part, she felt that there was too much good, too much that was really noble in the child to be lost. One afternoon about a week after her arrival at the home of Mr. Horton, Zula sat by the lakeside, whose waters were all aglow, sparkling like a thousand diamonds, as the soft winds made tiny waves, which rose and fell with a sweet musical sound. She had wandered down to the bank, alone, for she loved to go there and watch the little pleasure boats, and to gather the shells that lay along the shore. She sat with her broad-brimmed hat shading her face, and her lap half filled with pebbles. She was looking out over the waters, while her fingers, which held a pencil, rested on a little book which lay upon her knee.
“Bless me, there’s a pretty little gypsy; only look what a head of hair!”
Zula saw two fashionably dressed young ladies standing a short distance behind her.
“How do you know I’m a gypsy?” she asked, angrily.
“Goodness, did you hear me? Well, excuse me, then, please.”
“Yes, and I want you to tell me how you know I’m a gypsy.”
“Why, I only judged by those long beautiful braids, but I would know it now by the angry look in your black eyes; so now you may as well tell the truth about it.”