perches, in a splendor of tropical plumage.
No one had been in the caravan. Only a clock ticked and a saucepan sizzled, now and then, upon the diminutive stove. Molly had stood beside him and had pointed out one particularly small drawer close by the door. It had a curious brass handle, embossed with leaves and fruit.
"She puts the money in there," had whispered Molly, in the child's ear.
"What money?" Paul had asked.
"The fortune-telling money. See, she leans over this door and reads your palm and you pays her a bit of silver, sixpence say, or a shilling, and she pops it in this little drawer just beside her. Real handy, isn't it, Paul?"
He had nodded, openmouthed, and would have liked to have stayed longer, just gazing at the beauties, but Molly had hurried him away.
"And would we have seen a sixpence or a shilling if we'd opened that little drawer?" he had asked her later, as she bathed him.
Molly's eyes had grown as round as an owl's.
"It would have been stuffed tight with silver. And gold sovereigns too, most like. And too heavy to move, ten to one."
Paul had been most impressed, so that now, on his astral travels, he looked at the interior of Mrs. Curdle's caravan with the eye of reverence. There would be so many things to see that it would be hard to distinguish separate objects. It would be like looking into his own toy kaleidoscope, a glory of shifting color, winking lights, shimmering reflections and endless enchanting patterns.
Would Mrs. Curdle be there at nearly ten-thirty in the morning? Paul shivered at the thought of seeing her, even if he himself could remain invisible, for Molly had told him that gypsies could cast spells, just as witches did.
She might, thought Paul, pleasurably apprehensive, be making a little clay doll to stick with pins, so that the real person it was meant to be would suffer pains. Supposing she knew he was watching without having to look up? Supposing the doll was meant to be Paul Young?
The crick in his neck came back unaccountably and Paul threw away his idea of being a giant bird. It wasn't as good as he'd first thought.
He ran to the door and opened it, suddenly in need of company.
The smell of coffee brewing floated from downstairs and the sound of Aunt Ruth singing happily to herself as she clack-clacked across the stone-flagged kitchen in her high-heeled sandals.
"Aunt Ruth, Aunt Ruth!" he called urgently. "Come and watch me stand on my head!"
The sense of mercies received, to which Ruth had awakened that morning, remained with her as she worked about the house. She was astonished at this new inner peace, bewildered but grateful for the strength which had ebbed back to her. It was as though some throbbing wound had miraculously healed overnight and the scab which had formed over it could be touched without dread. For the first time Ruth found that she could recall the whole tragic affair dispassionately.
She had become engaged to Stephen Gardiner just over a year ago amidst general approval. Only her father had looked coolly at the young man and had remained unaffected by the fair good looks and charming boyish manner which won Stephen so many friends. He was employed in a firm of tea and coffee importers and went daily by tube train to the city. His income was comfortable enough to support a young wife, his health was excellent, his family background very similar to that of the Bassetts', he was head over heels in love with his pretty Ruth and there was no reason for her father to refuse his consent. Nor did he. But he could not wholeheartedly like this young man. For some reason Stephen's straight blue gaze, his deferential manner and his ease with the ladies of the Bassett household aroused a small, nagging distrust in Mr. Bassett's heart, and Ruth was aware of it. She had taxed him once when they were alone together.
"What is it that you dislike in Stephen?"
Her father had answered her honestly.
"I don't know, my dear, I just don't know. If he's your
No one had been in the caravan. Only a clock ticked and a saucepan sizzled, now and then, upon the diminutive stove. Molly had stood beside him and had pointed out one particularly small drawer close by the door. It had a curious brass handle, embossed with leaves and fruit.
"She puts the money in there," had whispered Molly, in the child's ear.
"What money?" Paul had asked.
"The fortune-telling money. See, she leans over this door and reads your palm and you pays her a bit of silver, sixpence say, or a shilling, and she pops it in this little drawer just beside her. Real handy, isn't it, Paul?"
He had nodded, openmouthed, and would have liked to have stayed longer, just gazing at the beauties, but Molly had hurried him away.
"And would we have seen a sixpence or a shilling if we'd opened that little drawer?" he had asked her later, as she bathed him.
Molly's eyes had grown as round as an owl's.
"It would have been stuffed tight with silver. And gold sovereigns too, most like. And too heavy to move, ten to one."
Paul had been most impressed, so that now, on his astral travels, he looked at the interior of Mrs. Curdle's caravan with the eye of reverence. There would be so many things to see that it would be hard to distinguish separate objects. It would be like looking into his own toy kaleidoscope, a glory of shifting color, winking lights, shimmering reflections and endless enchanting patterns.
Would Mrs. Curdle be there at nearly ten-thirty in the morning? Paul shivered at the thought of seeing her, even if he himself could remain invisible, for Molly had told him that gypsies could cast spells, just as witches did.
She might, thought Paul, pleasurably apprehensive, be making a little clay doll to stick with pins, so that the real person it was meant to be would suffer pains. Supposing she knew he was watching without having to look up? Supposing the doll was meant to be Paul Young?
The crick in his neck came back unaccountably and Paul threw away his idea of being a giant bird. It wasn't as good as he'd first thought.
He ran to the door and opened it, suddenly in need of company.
The smell of coffee brewing floated from downstairs and the sound of Aunt Ruth singing happily to herself as she clack-clacked across the stone-flagged kitchen in her high-heeled sandals.
"Aunt Ruth, Aunt Ruth!" he called urgently. "Come and watch me stand on my head!"
The sense of mercies received, to which Ruth had awakened that morning, remained with her as she worked about the house. She was astonished at this new inner peace, bewildered but grateful for the strength which had ebbed back to her. It was as though some throbbing wound had miraculously healed overnight and the scab which had formed over it could be touched without dread. For the first time Ruth found that she could recall the whole tragic affair dispassionately.
She had become engaged to Stephen Gardiner just over a year ago amidst general approval. Only her father had looked coolly at the young man and had remained unaffected by the fair good looks and charming boyish manner which won Stephen so many friends. He was employed in a firm of tea and coffee importers and went daily by tube train to the city. His income was comfortable enough to support a young wife, his health was excellent, his family background very similar to that of the Bassetts', he was head over heels in love with his pretty Ruth and there was no reason for her father to refuse his consent. Nor did he. But he could not wholeheartedly like this young man. For some reason Stephen's straight blue gaze, his deferential manner and his ease with the ladies of the Bassett household aroused a small, nagging distrust in Mr. Bassett's heart, and Ruth was aware of it. She had taxed him once when they were alone together.
"What is it that you dislike in Stephen?"
Her father had answered her honestly.
"I don't know, my dear, I just don't know. If he's your
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