The Gypsy Blood

The west was faintly yellow, the forest dark, when from the tent to which she had retired at noon, quite distraught and incoherent. Aunt Agatha begged plaintively for a cup of tea.

"Diane," she said, when the girl herself appeared with it, "I--I can't forget his face. I--I never shall. Twice now I've tried to get up, but I thought of his eyes and the revolver, and my knees folded up. It--it was just so this morning. What with the ringing in my ears--and the dizziness--and his face so dark with anger--and digging my heels in the ground to keep my knees from folding up under me--I--I thought I should go quite mad, quite mad, my dear. He--he meant to kill Mr. Poynter?"

"Yes," said Diane with a shudder. "Yes. I--think so."

"I'm sorry I told him where you were," fluttered Aunt Agatha, taking a conscience-stricken and somewhat tearful gulp of very hot tea. "I--I am indeed, but I couldn't in the least know that he went about killing people, could I, Diane?"

"No," said Diane patiently. "No, of course not. Don't bother about it. Aunt Agatha. Why not wait until your tea is a little cooler?"

"I'll have to," said Aunt Agatha with an aggrieved sniff. "For I do believe I'm filled with steam now. Why are you so white and quiet, Diane? Is it the revolver?"

"Aunt Agatha," exclaimed the girl impetuously, "why have you always been so reticent about my mother?"