“Luck is a foolish thing—or a belief in it is,” complained Bobby. “List to my tale of woe:
“Why wear a rabbit foot for luck
Or nail a horseshoe on the sill?
For if upon the ice you slip
You’ll surely get a spill.
“Why cross your fingers in the dark
To keep the witches from your track,
When if, in getting out of bed,
You step upon a tack?”
“Don’t sing us any more doggerel, but lead on!” commanded Laura.
Bobby was first at the dead tree. There she stopped, not for breath, but because, below her, in a sheltered hollow, where a spring drifted away across a grassy lawn, there was an encampment. She held up her hand and motioned for silence.
There were three large, covered wagons such is Gypsies usually drive. A dozen horses were tethered where the young grass was particularly lush. A fire over which a big kettle of some savory stew bubbled, burned in the midst of the encampment. There were two gaudily painted canvas tents staked on the green, too, although from the opened doors of the wagons it was evident that the Gypsies, at this time of year, mainly lived within their vehicles.
“Oh!” exclaimed Bobby, when the other girls were crowding about her, and looking as hard as she was at the camp. “This is what the girl we saw, ran away from.”
[CHAPTER IV—THE GYPSY QUEEN]
“Isn’t that romantic?” cried Jess, under her breath. “Wouldn’t you like to live in the open like that, Laura?”
“Sometimes. Then again I might want a steam-heated house,” laughed Mother Wit.
“And see that darling little baby!” gasped Nellie Agnew, as a little fellow in gay apparel ran out of one of the tents.