“Standing pinnacled in pain
Till a kiss sets free!”
Yes, the face of this girl was a marvelous thing, a perfect bit of chiselling. Brow, cheeks, nose, chin, shell-like ears—exquisitely modelled. Had I ever looked at her before? What rare perfection there was in her face. And her nature was rich—rich! Her soul—
Ah, her soul!
Suddenly it was Wanza, my comrade, Joey’s staunch friend and playmate, into whose eyes I looked. The gipsy was gone. The glamour was gone. Enchantment and madness were gone. I stood by a dying fire in a wind-stirred forest, with the roughened hands of a country wench in mine. But though she was only a country wench I admired and respected her. And when she whispered again as I moved away from the touch of her hands: “Things would be different if we was gipsies,” I replied: “Perhaps so, Wanza. But we are not gipsies. So let us not even play at gipsying.”
I went to the wagon for the baskets.
The next morning the gipsy was gone, and that was the last I saw of her.
CHAPTER IX
THE BIG MAN
SOME two weeks later Joey informed me that he could play “Bell Brandon” on his flute. I doubt if any one familiar with the piece would have recognized it as rendered by Joey on the futile instrument I had carved. The air being unfamiliar to me I asked him where he had picked it up.
“Oh,” he said carelessly, “she plays it on her guitar.”