“This Miss Carrington,” spoke Margit, eagerly. “She knows. I must meet her. But do you not tell her anything about me. Let me meet and judge her for myself.”
“Don’t you think we’d better tell her something about you?” asked Eve, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps she might not want to know me,” replied the Gypsy girl, anxiously. “Who am I? A Romany! All you other people look down on the Romany folk.”
“Well, you are only part Gypsy,” said the practical Evangeline. “And your father was an educated man—a great musician, you say.”
“Surely!”
“Then I wouldn’t class myself with people who would chase me with a bloodhound, and only wanted to make money out of me,” said Eve, sensibly.
“Ah! but all the Romany folk are not like, the Vareys,” returned Margit.
Eve would not allow the girl to talk until late, for her experience in the swamp had been most exhausting. They bundled her into bed, and laid all her poor clothing—which Mrs. Sitz had washed and ironed with her own hands—on the chair beside her.
Bobby had one more question to ask the Gypsy girl before she went to sleep, and she asked that in secret.
“How did that Varey woman—that Gypsy queen—know so much about me, and about Laura Belding, and our affairs?”