“But, Jerry, what would gypsies want with an old lady like Aunt Abigail? I thought they only stole babies.”
“Yes, and they come back after a while and claim their fathers’ estates,” chimed in Amy hysterically.
Jerry would have liked to be consoling, but did not see his way clear to that end. He accordingly observed that real gypsies would steal anything they could lay their hands on. And when he had finished this expression of his inmost convictions, Amy burst into tears.
“Oh, why are we wasting time?” she cried. “We ought to get Mr. Cole and Joe and all the men around to drive after those people and see who was under that blanket. Oh, dear. Oh, dear!”
Dorothy was pulling Peggy’s skirt. “Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy, listen!”
“Oh, hush, Dorothy. I can’t attend to you.”
“But listen, Aunt Peggy–”
“Dorothy, you’re a naughty girl. I can’t listen.”
Dorothy too burst into sobs. “I just wanted to tell you,” she wailed, “that Aunt Abigail was a-sitting on the porch.”
Peggy spun about. The astonishing news was true. On the porch sat Aunt Abigail, swaying slightly in one of the willow rockers, with her meditative gaze fixed on the western sky. After the first inevitable half minutes of stupefaction, there was a wild rush for the house.