Part 63 (1/2)

”I don't jest like to speak of it.”

”Is it anything you are ashamed of?”

”No, but then you know everybody hates to talk about bein' in love.”

”Oh, that is it. Has the deacon been here again?”

”Oh, la, me, yes; now don't you go to talkin' about him. You can't appreciate bein' in my place 'cause you never was in love.”

”Has he proposed?” Miss Elsworth asked, trying to hide a smile.

”Gracious, yes.”

So Miss Elsworth had settled up her affairs at Roxbury, giving the contents of the old house to Mrs. Morris, and after seeing her happily married to the deacon, she bade good bye to her friends there, who parted from her with tearful eyes and repeated requests that she would visit them as often as possible.

She returned to the city, where she began her work with renewed energy. She had sent a note to Scott, saying she would be there on the evening of the last day of October, and now the time had arrived when she was to meet him as she told him she would, in her true character, and make a full confession of the deception she had practiced. She went wrapped in a cloak which covered her entire form, her face being covered by a thick veil. At her request she was shown to Scott's room, where he awaited her. A look of surprise pa.s.sed over his face as he noticed her strange attire.

”I promised,” she said, throwing aside her veil, ”to come to you in my true character.”

Scott bowed and stepped forward to a.s.sist her in removing her wraps.

He took the cloak from her shoulders, and there stood before him, a beautiful picture of gypsy loveliness. Her dark, full skirt of rich purple velvet scarcely reached the top of her purple velvet boots, and was elaborately embroidered with gold. Her close fitting bodice revealed to perfection her full, round form, and the large flowing sleeves, with their gold colored satin linings, revealed at every turn the beautifully moulded arms. Beads of every conceivable size and color hung around her neck, and fastened back the raven locks of hair that fell like a cloud below her waist.

”Miss Elsworth,” Scott said, as soon as he had requested her to be seated. ”I am surprised to see you in this dress. What does it all mean?”

”I knew you would be, and that is why I would not accept the offer you made me--the generous offer of your love, and when I have told you my story you will thank heaven that I did not.”

Scott was seated a short distance from her, looking steadily into her face.

”I shall not ask your pardon, for I have done no intentional wrong, only I ask that you do not censure me too severely for the deception which I have practiced. I am not Miss Elsworth, the auth.o.r.ess, as you suppose.”

”You are not Miss Elsworth, the auth.o.r.ess?”

”No.”

”Why did you deceive me?”

”I will tell you. I come to you not as Miss Elsworth, but as Zula, the gypsy girl.”

”What? You are not a gypsy?”

”Yes, I am. Hard it is for me to think so, but the truth must be told.

I am Zula, the gypsy. Do you remember years ago of a little, wicked girl, who tried to steal the silver from your mother's table, and how you kindly set her free?”

”Yes, I remember, though my sister was the one who persuaded me to go after her.”

”But you went; and through your kindness she was released. Do you remember also a time that a young man was hunting near a gypsy camp a few miles from Detroit and found the same little girl being beaten by a fiend; a cruel gypsy?”

”Yes, I remember it well, and knew she was the same one whom I had rescued from the jail.”