Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Wild's. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. To-morrow they will all be contradicted. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone. “If you really are going to wait, make yourself as comfortable as you can. Langley is getting up, and coming this way. Ain't you, Jacky darling?" "Not quite, Poll," returned Mr.
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