“Yes, and those beautiful dark ones,” sighed Dorothy. “Those with all the colors—like sunset, you know.”
“Too bad,” murmured the strange girl. “Lots of chicken thieves around here lately. Dad says people will be blaming us. But we’ve been in this township every summer for ten years, and Dad is just as thick with the ‘cops’ as—the old woman is with the peddlars,” she finished, grinning at her own wit.
“You didn’t happen to hear any strangers around the camp last night, did you?” asked Ned, kindly.
“Heard more than that,” answered the girl. “But, say, I came over here to borrow something. Business is bad, and the old woman wants to know if you could just lend her a quarter. I didn’t want to ask, as I don’t forget good turns, and you’ve treated me all right,” with a nod to Dorothy. “But when the old woman says ‘go’ I’ve got to turn out. She’s gettin’ awful sassy lately.”
The girl dug the broken toe of her shoe deep into the soft sod. Evidently she did not relish asking the favor, and as Nat handed her the coin she looked up with a sad smile.
“Much obliged,” she stammered, “I’ll bring it back the first chance I get, if I—have to—steal it.”
“Oh, no! I’m making you a present of that,” the youth answered, pleasantly. “You mustn’t think of bringing it back. But about the noises at the camp last night? Did you say there were strangers about?”
“Might have been,” answered the girl slowly. “But you know gypsies never squeal.”
“I don’t expect you to,” followed Nat. “But you see my best birds are gone, and you, being a friend of ours, might help in the search for them.”
“So I might,” said Urania. “And if I found them?”