Bruce gave a bitter laugh. "You've seen the _Herald_, I suppose, and
you're wondering about the mare. You've never been a half-soled cousin,
have you? When you become the poor end of a rich relative you play to
keep in his good graces. You heard Skipper mention the will? When Allan
dies I'll inherit wealth. Something to look forward to, isn't it? And
yet, at this minute, I'm as poor--." He bit off the sentence, and in that
instant the noisy gayety from the lawn fell away to a startled murmur and
then became a hushed silence.
"Probably some more of Skipper's symbolism," Bruce Robb jeered.
Dr. Stone said, "Lady, out," and they reached the porch. The silence
remained unbroken.
"It's a gypsy woman, Uncle David," Joe said breathlessly.
The woman was painfully old, and gnarled, and advanced toward the porch
with the aid of a stout stick of twisted wood. Even in the voluminous
folds of her faded, bedraggled, once gayly-colored garments she seemed a
fragile framework of bones and of brown, wrinkled flesh. Beads were
strung around her scrawny neck; brass rings hung from her ears. And as
Joe watched, fascinated, she hobbled slowly up the walk with the slowness
of great age.
"Where did she come from?" Bruce demanded.
"Don't you know?" Dr. Stone asked mildly.