“No, no. From Switzerland,” replied Eve, smiling. “And I was very small when we came, so I do not remember much about it.”
“But I came only last year,” explained Margit. “And I was given to the Vareys——”
“Goodness me! Don’t talk that way,” interrupted Bobby. “It sounds just as though you were owned by those Gypsies.”
“Well, it is so,” said Margit. “I am a Gypsy, too. My father was Belas Salgo. He was a musician—a wonderful musician, I believe. But he was a Gypsy. And all the Romany are kin, in some way. These Vareys are English Gypsies. They are kind enough to me. But I sure believe they hide from me who I am.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Eve, in surprise, although Bobby said not a word, but listened, eagerly.
“Only my father, you see, was a Gypsy. My mother——”
“Who was she?” asked Bobby, suddenly.
“I—I do not know. But she was not of those people—no. I am sure of that. She died when I was very little. I went about in many lands with my father. Then he died—very suddenly. Gypsy friends took me for a while, but they all said I belonged over here—in America. So they sent me here finally.”
“Your mother was American, then, perhaps?” said Eve, shrewdly.
“That may be it. But these Vareys care nothing about my finding any relatives, save for one thing,” said Margit, shaking her head, gloomily.