"How sickening! Is that girl to have your bed?"
"Of course."
"And where are you put?"
"In that little box-room on the top floor. The boxes are all piled at one end, to make room for a camp bed."
"You don't mean it? Well, I didn't think Poppie was capable of such a horrid piece of nastiness."
"There's no other place for me at present. I may be extremely grateful to have that attic, so I'm informed. You forget I'm a charity girl!" said Gipsy bitterly.
Poor Gipsy was smarting sorely from a brief conversation she had had with Miss Poppleton. The Principal had reminded her in very plain terms of her dependent position, and had questioned and cross-questioned her as to whether she could remember any possible clue by which her father's whereabouts might be traced. Gipsy had already told all she knew, so the fresh catechism only seemed to her like the probing of an old wound. She felt so utterly helpless, so unable to offer any suggestions, or any way out of the difficulty. But she stuck tenaciously to her faith in her father.
"Dad promised to come back for me, and he will!" she said, with a gleam in her dark eyes.
"I'm afraid I know more of the world than you do, Gipsy, and it looks bad—very bad indeed!" replied Miss Poppleton, with a dismal shake of her head. "Some men are only too anxious to cast off their responsibilities."
