Of course Mrs. Harcourt praised and comforted her.

"Absurd!" she cried. "Did she wish you to consult a dictionary? Any
_ordinary_ child could do that, but to evolve such odd ideas! Why
_that_ is genius! She is dull if she doesn't know great creative genius
when she sees it!"

"And _must_ I go to school again to-morrow?" Gwen asked.

"No, indeed!" Mrs. Harcourt said, "I shall send you, hereafter, to
private school, where your talents will be appreciated."

There was another pupil who was far more uncomfortable at school than
Gwen had ever been, and that was Gyp.

Placed in a class with children of six or seven, the awkward boy felt
ill at ease, and out of place. Yet, while they were years younger than
he, they had already spent more hours in the class room than he ever
had, and pages that they read with ease, he struggled over. He was a
true gypsy, and he loved his freedom, and the fresh air.

Now, as he sat at his desk, book in hand, he thought of his long tramps
over field and meadow, through forest and valley, and in his heart he
hated school, and the people who forced him to attend.

"What's the use?" he muttered, under his breath.

"I can catch woodchucks, and birds and squirrels," he said, softly,
"and _once_ I caught a fox, but what kin I do here? Nothing but hold
a ol' book!" A sharp command to "stop muttering, and sit still," served