'Will you ever come back again?' inquired Marjorie.
The man shook his head.
'Can't say, lady. Maybe yes, maybe no. We never can tell. Thanks, master; good luck to you,' he said, touching his straggling forelock as Allan slipped a few coins into his hand.
'Good-bye, masters; good-bye, pretty ladies,' cried the gipsies in farewell.
Some distance from the hollow, a tall, loosely-made youth rose unexpectedly from where he had been basking in the sun, by the side of a dyke which screened him from the cold wind.
In the weak, handsome face and roving eyes the young people recognised Gibbie, the half-witted gipsy lad. An expression of disappointment crossed his face as he looked over the group and seemed to miss some one.
'Neil no with you,' he murmured. 'Want to see Neil. Was not at home.'
'Can we give him any message from you?' inquired Allan.
'Tell Neil, Gibbie go away. Long way; want to see Neil to say good-bye.'
'Very well,' said Allan. 'When we see him, we'll tell him.'