"I've been thinking lots about you,"—this very archly.
"Oh, say now"—began Gilbert, but her earnestness kept back the banter that was on his lips.
"I remember what you said about gipsy queens, about their hair, their eyes and their skin. Is there anything else lovely about them that you can think of?"
"Oh, lots, and I'll tell you volumes sometime," said the boy.
"But I do want to hear about them now,"—and she clasped her hands in supplication. "Tell me just about one of them, where she lived and how she got married."
"Some day, when I have time, I'll tell you about a beautiful one."
"How old was she?" interrupted Zorah.
"I should say she was all of twelve,"—this with a quizzical and half-amused expression on the part of Gilbert.
"That's just what I am, all of twelve; I was twelve last May. I was born in May, you know, on the fifth, half-past ten. Mama gave me a birthday party, and Aunt Harriet baked the loveliest birthday cake, and Mr. Pigott, he's my sister Crissie's steady company—and they're going
