Three days later, leaving Gyp with his sister, he went back to Mildenham to start the necessary alterations in the cottages.  He had told no one he was coming, and walked up from the station on a perfect June day, bright and hot.  When he turned through the drive gate, into the beech-tree avenue, the leaf-shadows were thick on the ground, with golden gleams of the invincible sunlight thrusting their way through.  The grey boles, the vivid green leaves, those glistening sun-shafts through the shade entranced him, coming from the dusty road.  Down in the very middle of the avenue, a small, white figure was standing, as if looking out for him.  He heard a shrill shout.

“Oh, Grandy, you’ve come back—­you’ve come back!  What fun!”

Winton took her curls in his hand, and, looking into her face, said: 

“Well, my gipsy-bird, will you give me one of these?”

Little Gyp looked at him with flying eyes, and, hugging his legs, answered furiously: 

“Yes; because I love you.  Pull!”