"You needn't think you can get him to take you to the gipsy camp," said Launcelot. "He will take me if I ask him." "No, he won't." "Why not?" "Because I shall tell him beforehand that if he takes you out there I shall thrash him within an inch of his life." "What?" gasped Judy. "I shall do it," said Launcelot, and as he swung down the path, Judy, looking after the straight, strong figure, knew that his threat was not an idle one. And yet, after all, if it had not been for Launcelot, Judy would never have gone to the camp. She had debated the question and had decided that the game was not worth the candle. She had approached Tommy Tolliver, and his numerous excuses convinced her that Launcelot had been before her. She had hinted her wishes to Anne, only to be met by that virtuous maiden with "Oh, Judy, I should be afraid--they look so dark and wild--and besides we ought not to go--" She even suggested a drive to the camp to the Judge, but he had said: "It is not a place for you, my dear," as if that settled the question. Then, too, she had other plans for Saturday, for Launcelot planned to drive his mother and Judy and Anne to Lake Limpid, and they were to take an early boat for a little resort where they were to meet some of Mrs. Bart's friends. Judy stayed with Anne all night, so as to be as near the Barts as possible, for there was a drive of five miles, and the boat left at eight o'clock. "Do get up, Judy," begged Anne, on Saturday morning, as she stood in front of her little mirror, her hair combed, her shoes polished, and her last bow tied. But Judy dug her rumpled head deeper into the pillow. "'If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother, dear,'" she murmured, having improved her acquaintance with Tennyson during the week. "Well, it isn't early," said Anne, sharply. "You will be late, Judy, and we must catch the boat." Judy sat up rubbing her eyes. "Oh, it won't hurt Launcelot to wait a little. He thinks he can manage everybody--but he can't dictate to me, Anne. I am not as meek as you are." "I'm not meek," flared Anne, whose usually sweet temper had been somewhat ruffled in her efforts to wake Judy. "But Launcelot is a very sensible boy." "Oh, sensible," groaned Judy. "I _hate_ sensible people." "What kind of people do you like?" demanded Anne, indignantly. "Unsensible ones?" "Yes. Dashing people and lively people and funny people--and--and--romantic people--but sensible people, oh, dear," and she buried her head again in the pillow. "Judy, _get up_." "I'll be ready in time." "No, you won't. And breakfast is ready. Judy, get up." A gentle snore was the only answer. "Oh," and Anne flung herself out of the room, "if you are late, Judy Jameson, I can't help it." She went down-stairs and ate her breakfast. But no sign of Judy.