“She was a beautiful gipsy,” he continued regretfully. “Do you know, Mr. David, I think she was almost—not quite—but almost as pretty as Wanza. I guess there never was any one prettier than Wanza, ’cept—” he hesitated.
“Yes, Joey? Except?”
“Is the wonder woman prettier?” He put the question wistfully.
“Perhaps not—I do not know, Joey.” Could I say in truth she was? remembering the face I had seen in the firelight.
But that night after Joey was tucked away in the covered wagon the gipsy came again. I raised my eyes from the fire to see her coming through the long grass toward me. She came springing along, her bare arms thrusting back the low hanging tree branches, her short skirt swirling above her bare feet.
I went to meet her. Her manner was bashful, and her eyes were imploring. And after I had greeted her she was tongue-tied.
“Now that you are here, come to the fire,” I said.
She shrank from me like a tristful child.
“Come,” I said. “And tell me why you have come back.”
“I haven’t come back—exactly. I have been in the woods all day near here.”