“Listen,” she said, in a whisper, her eyes bright with eagerness. “Maybe that’s the camp of the tramps that we’ve been looking for. And if it is we’ll have to be careful not to let them know we’re around.”
“You said something, Betty Nelson,” agreed Grace, beginning to back still further down the hill. “I vote we get away from here.”
“Nonsense,” said Betty, sharply, but still in a whisper. “You can run away, if you want to, but I’m going to see what that smoke means.”
“Right you are,” agreed Mollie, and together they began cautiously to ascend the hill, Amy and Grace bringing up the rear.
They had almost reached the top of the hill when some one came suddenly toward them through the trees, bringing them to a short stop.
And what they saw made them rub their eyes hard to make sure they were not dreaming.
A little old lady she was, with a figure so slight and thin it looked as if a breath of wind might blow it away and a face that was sweet in spite of the wrinkles of age. Her head was uncovered and her hair, curly and snow-white, framed her face softly and pleasantly. Altogether she was a little old lady who looked as though she might have stepped straight out of a story book.
She did not seem to see the astonished girls at first but came straight on, head bent and old feet faltering uncertainly on the rocky path. Then suddenly she looked up and saw them.
A thin, blue-veined hand flew to her throat in swift alarm and she stared at them silently.
Betty, recovering from her surprise, flew to the old lady’s side, taking a wrinkled old hand in her firm young one.