For a minute the gipsy watched Aunt Rachel, and then she got up from the sewing machine box and crossed the floor. She leaned so close towards her that she had to put up a hand to steady the babe at her back.
"Lady dear," she murmured with irresistible softness, "your husband died, didn't he?"
On Aunt Rachel's finger was a ring, but it was not a wedding ring. It was a hoop of pearls.
"I have never had a husband," she said.
The gipsy glanced at the ring. "Then that is—?"
"That is a betrothal ring," Aunt Rachel replied.
"Ah!…" said Annabel.
Then, after a minute, she drew still closer. Her eyes were fixed on Aunt
Rachel's, and the insinuating voice was very low.
"Ah!… And did it die too, lady dear?"
Again came that quick, half-affrighted look into Aunt Rachel's face. Her eyes avoided those of the gipsy, sought them, and avoided them again.