“I wish you cared more for public opinion, Wanza.”
“Public fiddlesticks,” Wanza growled, crossly.
Suddenly she laughed with childlike naïveté, her eyes grew bright with roguery.
“You did not know me just at first, now did you? The black wig, and staining my face and hands fooled you all right for awhile. Don’t I look like a gipsy? I did it to please Joey—partly—and partly because—oh, Mr. Dale, I wanted to come with you! It sounded so fine—what you said about the greenwood and the caravan. Do you hate me for following?”
What could I say?
I made her as comfortable as I could there on the soft moss, with a couple of blankets, heaped fresh wood on the fire, and then I crawled in beside Joey and lay pondering on this latest prank of madcap Wanza. I saw the moon grow brighter and pass from my vision, I saw the stars wheel down the sky towards the west, and dawn come up like a delicate mincing lady, and then I slept.
Joey stood beside me when I awakened. He had a scarlet ribbon in his hand.
“The gipsy’s gone, Mr. David,” he said. “I found this hanging on an elder bush.”
I breathed a sigh of thankfulness.
“So she’s gone,” I murmured, not venturing to meet his eyes.