Mamma and I had not noticed the others going; our books must have been interesting, and time passes quickly in such a case.
'How did the gypsy get through the lodge gates?' mamma repeated.
'That's what I asked her first thing,' Hoskins answered; 'but she did not answer very distinctly. She says she has come a good bit out of her way to see you—there are not any camping about near here. She has a boy with her—perhaps she wants something for him—quite a little fellow. She's a pleasant, civil-spoken woman—indeed, gypsies generally are if they want to get something out of you.'
'Like most people, I am afraid,' said mamma, smiling as she reluctantly prepared to move. 'Perhaps I had better speak to her; it would not do to have her lurking about all night. They are queer people—I should not like to rouse any ill-feeling in a gypsy.'
'Mayn't I come with you, mamma?' I said. 'I have never spoken to a real gypsy.'
Mamma looked at me rather doubtfully.
'Oh yes,' she said; 'but I don't want her to tell your fortune or anything of that kind, Ida, so do not encourage her if she begins about it.'
We made our way through the Hut, followed by Hoskins, to the door at the back, where, as she had said, the strange visitor was standing—Margery, who was washing up (I never saw Margery not washing up, by the bye), was also keeping an eye on the woman, though I could see by the movement of her shoulders that she was giggling.
Mamma went forward.