The invalid started quickly at the sound of their footsteps; and seeing the boy, exclaimed, in a faint, yet eager and imperious tone:
"Has he come?"
"No; he is ill, and could not come," said Gipsy, stepping forward. "He is unable to walk, so I have come in his stead."
"Who are you?" demanded Mrs. Oranmore, sharply.
"Well, really, I'd be obliged to anybody who would tell me—at present, it's more than I know. I used to think I was Gipsy Gower—Squire Erliston's ward; but, of late, I've found out I don't belong to anybody in particular. I was picked up, one night, as if I had been a piece of drift-wood; and I expect, like Venus, I rose from the sea."
"Girl, have you come here to mock me?" exclaimed Dame Oranmore, fiercely.
"The saints forbid! I'm telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I was picked up one Christmas eve, nineteen years ago, on the beach, about a quarter of a mile from here; and—good Heaven! what's the matter with you?" exclaimed Gipsy, springing back.
With the shriek of a dying panther, Mrs. Oranmore sprung up in her bed, with her eyes starting from their sockets, as she fairly screamed:
"What! Heaven of heavens! did he not drown you?"
"Why, no; I rather think not—at least, if I ever was drowned, I have no recollection of it. But, my goodness! don't glare at me so—you're absolutely hideous enough to make every hair on a body's head stand perpendicular, with those eyes of yours."