“Yes,” Maida answered. She continued to give them her memories of the gypsies through the rest of the long, shaded, greenly-winding walk, and the children asked many questions. Presently the trail expanded ahead into a clearing. “There they are!” Arthur called. The clearing was surrounded by pines. Against this background, a group of tents pointed their weather-stained pyramids up from the brown pine-needles. In the middle, a fire was burning. A black pot, hanging from a triangle of stout sticks, emitted a cloud of steam and a busy bubbling. A wagon stood off among the trees and tethered by a long rope two horses were feeding. A trio of hounds, two old and one young, rose as the children approached; made slowly in their direction. An old woman, so wrinkled that her face looked as though it could never have been smooth, with great hoops of gold in her ears, a red kerchief on her head and a black one around her neck, stood watching the pot. A little distance off, a younger woman, buxom and brown, mended. Three men, one middle-aged, two younger, sat smoking. “Those dogs won’t bite us Maida,” Laura said in a panic, “will they?” “Oh no,” Maida said, “they know me. Hi Lize! Hi Tige!” she called. The hounds burst into a run; came bounding to her side; leaped up and licked her face. Maida staggered under the onslaught, but Arthur expertly seized their collars, held them. The excitement in the gypsy camp was immediate. “It’s Maida!” ran a murmur from mouth to mouth. The young woman leaped to her feet. The old woman, less alert but still nimble, sprang from the grass also. They all, even the men, came forward, smiling eagerly. Maida shook hands with them and introduced her friends. “When did you get here?” Maida asked. “I’ve had Zeke come down here every day for a week looking for you--every day until yesterday, when in the excitement of our arrival, he neglected to come.” “We came yesterday,” they explained. They were most of them, dark, with longish hair and flashing dark eyes but their look was very friendly. They asked Maida a multitude of questions about her father and Granny Flynn, her trip abroad. Finally Maida asked them if they had any baskets ready for sale. “A few,” Mrs. Savory said looking pleased. “Oh Silva, bring the baskets out! Maida you have never seen Silva and Tyma, have you? They’re my sister’s children. My sister died last summer and now they’re living with us.” A voice answered, “In a moment.” It was a child’s voice and yet it had a curious grown-up accent as of an unusual decision of character. The doors of one of the tents parted and a girl’s head appeared in the opening. The children stared at her. For an instant nobody spoke. The head disappeared. When the girl emerged, her hands were full of baskets. Behind her came a lad very like her but older.