“Come in! Come in! It’s all right now,” said the Gypsy girl. “There is nothing to fear from them now—— Ah! who is this?”
Bobby turned quickly and saw a little, stooped old man, turning in at the gate. Miss Carrington saw him, too, and she came to her feet in a moment. The color came back into her face and she began to look very grim again—more like her usual self.
“Morning! morning!” cackled the old gentleman, nodding at the school teacher, but looking hard at Bobby. And the latter recognized him as Eben Chumley, a queer, miserly old man who owned a great deal of property on the Hill.
“Good morning, Mr. Chumley,” said Miss Carrington, quietly.
“Now, don’t tell me this is the gal,” said Mr. Chumley, pointing a long finger at Bobby. “For that’s Tom Hargrew’s young ’un—I know her well enough.”
“This is the girl I wish you to see and talk with, Mr. Chumley,” said Miss Carrington, beckoning Margit forward. Then she added, in her severest tone: “Miss Hargrew! you are excused.”
“Well, the mean cat!” muttered Bobby, as she went out of the yard. “I had no intention of listening to their private affairs. But she might at least have thanked me for tumbling over that Gypsy.”
Margit came to her, however, that morning, and thanked her warmly.
“You’re a brave girl, Miss Hargrew,” she said. “And I think that Jim Varey will let me alone hereafter. At least, he had better keep his distance.”
And so it seemed, for thereafter, when Miss Carrington and her charge walked to and from school, a policeman strolled behind them. The girls—especially those of the junior class, however—were almost eaten up with curiosity.