They began to deck the great hall-kitchen for Christmas, but the snow still lay thick over hill and valley, and the gipsies’ caravans remained by the broken wall where the drifts had overtaken them.  Though all the chairs were mended, Annabel still came daily to the farm, sat on the box they used to cover the sewing machine, and wove mats.  As she wove them, Aunt Rachel knitted, and from time to time fragments of talk passed between the two women.  It was always the white-haired lady who spoke first, and Annabel made all sorts of salutes and obeisances with her eyes before replying.

“I have not seen your husband,” Aunt Rachel said to Annabel one day. (The children at the other end of the apartment had converted a chest into an altar, and were solemnising the nuptials of the resurrected Flora and Jack, the raffish sailor-doll.)

Annabel made roving play with her eyes.  “He is up at the caravans, lady dear,” she replied.  “Is there anything Annabel can bid him do?”

“Nothing, thank you,” said Aunt Rachel.

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.

“Did what die?” she asked slowly and guardedly....

The child at the gipsy’s back did not need suck; nevertheless, Annabel’s fingers worked at her bosom, and she moved the sling.  As the child settled, Annabel gave Aunt Rachel a long look.

“Why do you rock?” she asked slowly.

Aunt Rachel was trembling.  She did not reply.  In a voice soft as sliding water the gipsy continued: 

“Lady dear, we are a strange folk to you, and even among us there are those who shuffle the pack of cards and read the palm when silver has been put upon it, knowing nothing...  But some of us see—­some of us see.”

It was more than a minute before Aunt Rachel spoke.

“You are a woman, and you have your babe at your breast now....  Every woman sees the thing you speak of.”

But the gipsy shook her head.  “You speak of seeing with the heart.  I speak of eyes—­these eyes.”