I can hear strange desert cries;
And ever my thoughts go homing
To a tent under desert skies.
“Bettina,” a voice called.
And, like a flash, the girl in the camp fire dress, leaning over, dropped the paper with her poem upon it into the fire.
“Polly, I am here under our pine trees,” she called back.
Then, getting up, she stood with her back to the sun. She had yellow-brown hair which looked gold in this light, a slender figure and delicate features, and must have been about sixteen.
The girl who joined her was a complete contrast. Since they were in the woods together, one might have been thought a gypsy and the other, except for her dress, some Norse maiden who had stepped forth from Scandinavian mythology.
The younger girl was small and had dark hair falling to her shoulders. Her eyes were black and her color brilliant. She was wearing a short skirt, a red sweater and a black velvet tam o’shanter, while over her arm she carried a long gray cloak.
“How could you come out here alone, Bettina?” she demanded reproachfully, marching forward as soon as she appeared upon the scene and throwing the coat about the other girl’s shoulders.