"Are you hurt, Cora?" asked Bess, seeing that Cora was pressing her hand to her lips.
"Only scratched from the brush," and she winced. "Those berry bushes seem to have a grudge against me."
"But the old Gypsy?" asked Bess, as the two girls stood close together.
"Oh, I didn't mind her rant," replied Cora. "They always have something wonderful to tell one."
"I wish they would not cross our path so often," went on the other girl. "Seems to me they have been the one drawback of our entire trip."
"Let us hope that they will now be satisfied," said Cora with that indefinite manner which so often conveys a stronger meaning than might have been intended.
Both girls sighed. Then they joined the others, while the old gypsy woman looked after them sharply.
Ed was hailing the driver of the bus—"Silent Bill," they called him, because he was never known to keep still, not even at his grandmother's funeral. Silent Bill lost no time in getting his horses headed right, also in starting out to describe the wonders and beauties of the White Mountains.
It was fun to take the bus ride, and no one was more pleased at the prospect than was Mr. Rand.
"Nothing like sitting down square," he declared. "Why young folks always want to walk themselves into the grave is more than I pretend to understand."