“Almost?” repeated Nat, “I thought you did fall—you must have hit that big rock there. I know it for I used to fish from the same place, and it’s not exactly a divan covered with sofa cushions.”
“Yes, I did hit my side on it,” admitted the girl, “but it doesn’t hurt much.”
“What is your name?” asked Dorothy, stepping closer to the stranger.
“Urania. But I’m going to change it. I don’t believe in Urania any more.”
“Then you are a Gypsy girl,” spoke Nat. “I thought I’d seen you before.”
“Yes, they say I’m a Gypsy girl, but I’m tired of the business and I’m going away.”
“Where?” asked Dorothy.
“Any place as long as it’s not back to camp. I left it to-night and I’m never going back to it again—never! never!” and the girl shook her disheveled head in very positive emphasis.
“Why?” asked Dorothy. “You’re too young to be out alone and at night. You must be frightened; aren’t you?”
“Frightened?” and the girl laughed derisively. “What is there to be afraid of? I know all the snakes and toads, besides the birds.”