"They are Gypsies, I believe," whispered Ruth.
"Oh! you have Gypsies on the brain," flung back her chum. "At least, we shall be dry in that bus, if it rains. And we can find somebody at Severn Corners to put us up, even if there is no hotel."
Ruth sighed, and agreed. The woman had been speaking to the man on the seat. Now she took the lantern and went around to the back of the van.
"This way, little ladies," she said, in her most winning tone. "You may rest in comfort inside here. Nobody but the good old grandmother and my bébé."
"Come on!" said Helen to Ruth, leading the way.
There was a light in the interior and it dazzled the girls' eyes, as they climbed in. The door snapped to behind them, and the horses started along the road before either Ruth or Helen were able to see much of their surroundings.
And strange enough their surroundings were; berths on either side of the strange cart, made up for sleeping and covered with gay quilts. There were chests and boxes, some of them padlocked, and all with cushions on them for seats.
There was a table, and a hanging lamp, and a stove. A child was asleep in one of the bunks; a white-haired poodle lay crouched at the child's feet, and showed its teeth and snarled at the two visitors.
But the appearance that amazed—and really startled—the girls most was the figure that sat facing them, as they entered the van. It was that of an old, old crone, sitting on a stool, bent forward with her sharp chin resting on her clenched fists, and her elbows on her knees, while iron-gray elf-locks hung about her wrinkled, nut-brown face, half screening it.
Her bead-like eyes held the girls entranced from the first. Ruth and Helen looked at each other, startled and amazed, but they could not speak. Nor could they keep their gaze for long off the strange old woman.