“Poor child!” said the old gentleman, “What if my little daughter—But, of course, she is very different to the girl of the woods.”
“Oh, I don’t think, father, that Urania is really untamed. I have known her to do such good, thoughtful acts—surely she must have a generous heart.”
“No doubt of it, daughter. But take care there,” as the path neared the edge of a precipice. “I know you are sure-footed, but that’s a dangerous pass.”
Dorothy clung to some low branches and gained the broader path without mishap. Then, from the height of the hill, they stopped to call and look over the surrounding slope of woodland.
Dorothy called and called, but only the echo of her own voice against the hills came in answer.
“How I do wish we could find her,” she exclaimed, some discouragement in her tone. “I am sometimes afraid—she might be dead!”
“No fear,” replied the Major, confidently. “Good, strong girls like Urania have business living, and they do not die without just cause. We had best sit down here, and take our lunch,” he went on. “Perhaps those chicken sandwiches may give you new courage. Isn’t there a spring over there near that rock?”
“I can see water trickling down,” answered Dorothy. “I’ll get the cups out and go over.”
In the little lunch basket Dorothy had placed the cups of the automobile lunch set, and with these in her hands she ran over to the rock by the hillside. Major Dale helped lay out the things. It was delightful to be out there in the woods, to hear the birds sing a welcome, and to feel the cool breezes of the autumn air brushing his cheeks.
“I hardly blame the gypsies,” he said to himself. “The outdoor life is the only life, after all.”