“Are you, really?” asked Mabel.
“I am. We still keep up our old customs. We are real Gypsies from Romany. I will tell them all to come out and you may select whom you will.”
She passed rapidly from tent to wagon, and soon a number of young women, and old, down to girls of fifteen and sixteen, appeared. Some were old women, one a veritable hag, but most of them were middle-aged, their faces dark and wrinkled, yet with the healthy color of out-of-doors, and their skin was beautifully clear. They seemed quite clean, too, and the glimpses the girls had into the tents and wagons showed them much neater than one would have imagined on hearing the word Gypsies.
“Are—are these all fortune-tellers?” asked Mrs. Bonnell, after a look about the camp, as her eyes swept over the assembled group. The men did not seem to concern themselves with what was going on, and the dogs had quieted down.
“All—yes, lady.”
“And have you no more—no young girls?”
“No, lady.”
“We saw one girl—once—named Hadee—is she not with your tribe?”
For an instant the Guardian was sure there passed a look between the two older Gypsy women, and then the Queen answered:
“Hadee is no longer here.”