In which Clarence meets Dora, learns much of his gypsy companion, fights Ezra, and is sung to slumber.

“Dora,” said Ben, as they neared the campfire, “come here.”

The little girl came running at his call.

“I want you to show this boy around. He’s one of your kind, and you’ll be good company for each other while he’s with us.”

Dora held out her hand, her blue eyes all sympathy, her bright face kindling, her smile all welcome.

“Glad to meet you, Dora. My name’s Clarence Esmond,” said the lad, taking her hand and shaking it cordially. “There’s only one thing I’ve got against you.”

“Why? What have I done?” asked the little miss, dismay showing itself in her rounded blue eyes.

“It isn’t what you’ve done; it’s what you are.”

“Oh, indeed!” ejaculated Dora, her brows going up in bewilderment.

“Yes, indeed. I started out this morning in quest of my lady, the star-eyed goddess of adventure. I was just half in earnest. You see, I’ve been at Clermont Academy, New York, for three years, where nothing happened except three meals a day.”

“Oh, I see,” said Dora with the suspicion of a twinkle in her eye. “The meals happened three times a day.”

“Oh, go on! You know what I mean.”

“Oh, that’s a fact!” cried Dora. “Talking of meals, aren’t you hungry? You’ve had nothing since breakfast.”

“I ought to be hungry,” admitted Clarence, “but somehow things have been happening so fast that it’s interfered with my appetite.”

“That’s too bad,” said Dora. “Of course, if you don’t want anything——”

“Oh, I say,” interrupted Clarence, “I simply said I wasn’t very hungry. If you’ve got anything to eat——”

There was no need for Clarence to finish his sentence. Dora was off at once, and returned very quickly with a plate of cold meat and some crusts of bread. The repast, if the truth must be told, was not very inviting. However, it did not seem to strike Clarence in that way at all; for, standing with the plate in his hand, he set about eating with a vigor which promised a speedy disappearance of everything offered him.

“You said you weren’t very hungry,” said Dora, trying to suppress a smile.

“I’m not,” replied Clarence, continuing to do yeoman’s work.

“When you are hungry, I’d like to be around,” said the girl.

“Suppose,” said Clarence, “that we come back to our original subject. We were talking about you and the bright-eyed goddess of adventure.”

“Yes. Do go on, Clarence.”

“Well, anyhow, I’ve been reading books of travel and adventure all this summer. Last night I finished Treasure Island, and it got me going. I was just crazy to have a few adventures; so I called on the bright-eyed goddess to come on and set ’em up.”

“Did she come?”

“Come! I should say she did! She’s worn her welcome out already. But that’s not what I wanted to say. Just before I woke up in that boat, which Pete and his friends are painting over right now——”

“They’ll sell it tomorrow for a few dollars,” interpolated Dora.

“Oh, indeed! How thoughtful! Well, just before I woke, I had a dream. I saw the bright-eyed goddess long enough to get a crack of her wand over the head, and she looked like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yes, your eyes are bright and blue, your complexion is what the novelists call dazzling, your hair is long and like the bearded corn when it is ripe. So was hers. The goddess wore a white dress. So do you.”

“I always wear white,” said Dora, simply. “When I was a baby, my mother consecrated me to the Blessed Virgin.”

“What, are you a Catholic, Dora?”

“Yes, Clarence; and mama kept me dressed in white with a blue sash till I was seven years of age. Then I made my First Communion. On that day, I told Our Lord that I would stick to the blue and the white as long as I could.”

“So you dress to please the Blessed Virgin?” queried the startled boy.

They were standing beside the fire, and the flames lighting up the girl’s features added to the glow of enthusiasm which had come upon her face as she spoke of the blue and the white.

“I wish I could say I did,” she made humble answer. “Sometimes I feel that I’m thinking too much of how I look. I hope it isn’t a sin to want to look pretty.”

“Of course, it isn’t,” returned Clarence, promptly. “Why, I’m troubled that way myself.”

Dora began to giggle.

“You’re laughing at me,” said Clarence, flushing.

“Excuse me,” said Dora. “I—I—”

This time she broke into silvery laughter.

Clarence gazed down upon himself. He had forgotten, in the interest of the conversation, his present attire. For a youth of fourteen, bare-footed, clad in a rusty calico shirt and trousers of uncertain age, to accuse himself of taking pride in his apparel and appearance was, now he came to think of it, highly comical. He joined Dora in her laughing.

“And yet I was not always thus,” he said. “You should have seen me this morning in my natty sailor suit. I really think I was stuck on myself. Dora, by George, you’re a good fellow.”

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you something about the people you’re with.”

Clarence looked around. The twain were practically alone beside the fire. Two other gypsies, men whom he had not seen before, were helping Pete and the boy to give the stolen boat a new appearance. The little children were paddling about in the water. Strangely enough, they scarce uttered a sound. They played, it is true, but their play was largely pantomime. Ben was off to the right tending the horses. The two women were in one of the tents.

“Here’s a log,” said Clarence, rolling one forward with some exertion towards the fire. “Suppose we sit down, and criticize the whole crowd.”

Clarence had come to an end of his meal. He ate no more, because there was no more to eat. One would think, could one have seen them, that the two innocents, as they seated themselves on the log with their faces turned towards the river and their backs to the fire, had been acquainted with each other from their nursery days.

“First of all,” began Dora, “there’s Pete.”

“Oh, yes, I know Pete all right,” said Clarence, passing his hand over his mouth and rubbing his upper lip. “And I want to say right now that I’m not stuck on Pete.”

“He’s not—he’s not—” Dora paused and considered. “Well, he’s not real nice.”

“Nobody would say he was.”

“And he’s the leader of this band.”

“Gypsies, eh?”

“Yes, gypsies. It isn’t a regular band you know. It’s only a piece of one.”

“It’s a big enough one for me,” Clarence observed with emphasis.

“You see, Pete got into some trouble last spring in Ohio. He made some kind of a horse-trade and was sentenced to the workhouse for a month. He’d have been there longer, only Ben was sent down to wait for him and help him pay off his fine. And that’s how I came to be here.”

“What have you got to do with paying off Pete’s fine? What have you got to do with the workhouse?” asked Clarence indignantly.

“Nothing,” laughed Dora. “But if it hadn’t been for Pete’s being in the workhouse, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Tell me all about it, Dora.”

“I will—tomorrow. There’ll hardly be time tonight. You see, all these gypsies are on their way to join their own crowd somewhere further north in this State. We’ve been traveling up this way since last May—over four months.”

“How far have you traveled?”

“Ben told me that we’re about five hundred miles from where we started.”

“Five hundred miles! Let me think a minute.” Clarence began checking off on his fingers, murmuring at the same time under his breath.

“Why, good gracious!” he spoke out, presently. “You haven’t averaged much more than four miles a day.”

“Yes; but you ought to see the way we travel. We hardly ever go straight ahead. We generally zigzag. We cut across the country in one direction and then we cut across back again in another, always keeping near to the river. You see, we don’t like to meet people and we always dodge the towns and villages. I guess it’s partly my fault. They don’t want strangers to see me.”

“And I suppose they won’t want anybody to see me either,” said Clarence. “Say, did you ever try to break away?”

“I did in the beginning. Pete gave me an awful beating three different times; and I found it was no use.”

“Well, I’ll not stand for it. Why, it seems to me it would be easy to get away some time or other when nobody’s on the watch. Why, Dora, we’ve been talking here for fifteen minutes, and nobody’s been bothering about us in the least.”

“Don’t you believe it, Clarence. Those two women have been keeping their eyes on us ever since we shook hands. They take turn about, and the watching is going on night and day.”

“Is that so? By the way, I notice that boy helping those fellows at the boat is looking this way very often.”

“That’s Pete’s youngest son. He’s a bit quarrelsome. He’s generally pretty nice to me; but I think that’s because Ben gave him a shaking up one day when he was rude to me. His name is Ezra. I think he’s a sort of bully. I am afraid of him.”

“I don’t like bullies myself,” said Clarence.

“He’s watching you,” continued Dora. “He always gets angry and out of sorts when anybody is friendly to me. Those little gypsies all like me. But Ezra, when he notices them about me much, gives them a lot of trouble.”

“Maybe he’s jealous,” suggested the artless youth.

“Jealous? Why should he be jealous? He doesn’t care for me.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Clarence. “Anybody who meets you would be sure to like you, because you are a good fellow.”

Dora broke into so ringing a laugh that all the artists engaged upon the boat stopped their work to turn their gaze upon the two children.

“Oh, but you are the funniest boy,” she said.

“Thank you kindly; I do try my best. But come on, let’s finish up with the crowd before they get done with that boat.”

“That’s so. It’s so long since I’ve had anybody I could talk to that I can’t help wandering. Well, those two men with Pete are his oldest sons. They don’t seem to count much one way or the other. Three of those little children paddling in the water are Ben’s, and the other two belong to the oldest of Pete’s sons. His wife is dead, and Ben’s wife, that young woman, takes care of them. She’s real nice, and so is Ben. Ben is very kind to me. He treats me like a little princess. When I told him about wearing blue and white in honor of our Blessed Mother, he got me a lot of nice white dresses and three blue sashes, and his wife is just as kind. Her name is Dorcas. She helps me wash my things, and sews for me, and—you see that little tent over there?”

“It seems to me I do.”

“Well, that’s my tent. Ben got it for me. His wife sleeps with me every night; but she never comes in till I’ve said all my prayers.”

“All your prayers.”

“Yes, all of them.”

“I know only two,” observed Clarence regretfully, “and one of them, the Our Father, I’ve partly forgotten.”

“I’ll teach you all I know,” said Dora. “And,” she continued, “when I’ve finished my prayers, I sing a little hymn to the Blessed Virgin. Then she knows that I’m going to bed and she comes in. Isn’t that nice?”

“I don’t know,” returned Clarence, “I haven’t heard you sing yet.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean her staying out and leaving me to myself till I go to bed. I call that—I call that—delicate.”

“I can sing some myself,” said Clarence, more affected by Dora’s declaration than he cared to show.

“Oh, can you? We’ll get up some duets.”

“The kids at my school used to like to hear me sing, but perhaps it was because they didn’t know any better. But you didn’t tell me anything about that old woman who raised such a fuss about seeing a cross on my hand. What was the matter with her?”

“She hates Catholics. I don’t know what to make of her. She acts as if she would like to poison me because I’m a Catholic. She thinks you’re one.”

“But I’m not.”

“What are you, Clarence?”

“I’m nothing. My father said I was to wait till I was fourteen before I thought anything about religion.”

Suddenly Clarence stopped. The vision of his parents presented itself,—their grief, their bewilderment, their perplexity. His eyes filled with tears.

“What’s the matter, Clarence?”

The boy had not attended boarding school for nothing. With an heroic effort he mastered himself.

“Nothing. Something caught me in the throat. By the way, I’m fourteen now; have been since last June. It’s time for me to get busy and fix up the religious question.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Dora, turning shining eyes and the glowing face of enthusiasm upon her new friend. “I’ll instruct you in the Catholic faith myself.”

“But I don’t intend to be a Catholic. It isn’t up-to-date. There’s too much superstition in it.”

Dora’s eyes opened to their widest.

“Clarence, how can you talk so? I’m shocked. You need instruction badly, and I’m going to begin tomorrow.”

They certainly at this moment looked like life-long friends. Dora, once the question of religion had been raised, had become intensely earnest. Master Ezra, the boat repairing being fairly completed, had drawn near enough to see their faces without being able to catch the exact import of their words. He was plainly disquieted. Tiptoeing his way behind the trees he stole behind the two controversialists, and seizing the end of the log on which they were sitting, gave it a shove and a kick, with the result that the two fell sprawling to the earth.

Clarence was up at once, and with a courtly air caught the girl’s hand and helped her to her feet.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Ezra. His voice was raucous.

“My friend,” said Clarence. “I’m not at all pleased with that laugh of yours.”

“What?” sputtered Ezra.

“It notes the vacant mind,” continued Clarence, with apparent calm. “Also I desire to state that while I don’t mind your spilling me, I do object to your spilling this girl.”

“What?” roared Ezra, doubling his fists and advancing to within a few feet of the youthful knight.

“I’m not deaf, either. The thing for you to do now is to apologize to Dora.”

“What?” roared Ezra, louder than ever.

“Oh, you’re deaf, are you?”

Here Clarence put his two hands like a speaking-trumpet before his mouth and shrilled at the top of his voice.

“Apologize to Dora!”

For answer Ezra’s right hand shot out, aimed direct for Clarence’s jaw. The youngster, expecting such demonstration, jumped back, but not so quickly as to avoid entirely the force of the blow; and as he returned with a facer that caught Ezra between the eyes, the gypsies, man, woman and child, came hurrying to the spot in such short order that, when Ben threw himself between the two, a circle was already formed about the belligerents.

Ezra addressed Ben in gypsy patter. His words were few. Ben nodded.

“Go ahead,” he said, and drew back into the circle; and before Clarence had caught the full significance of these words, a blow planted full below his jaw sent him to the earth. He was up at once, and, on careful guard, warded off several more vicious attacks and waited for an opening. It came presently and left Ezra’s left eye in a state which promised to develop presently into deep mourning.

At this the gypsy lad lost control of himself and proceeded to strike out furiously and wildly. It was easy for Clarence, a trained boxer and agile as a cat, to ward off these blows; easy for him, now and then, to reach his adversary with what are known in sporting circles as love-taps. In a few minutes, Ezra was breathing heavily. Suddenly the gypsy changed his tactics; he tried to catch Clarence in his arms and bear him to the ground. Clarence, not without difficulty, succeeded in breaking away, and, once free, changed his tactics, too. Springing forward, he literally rained blows upon the winded foe. Nose, eyes, mouth, jaw, all received vigorous attention, till Ezra, unable to stand the punishment, jumped back and averted his head.

“Did you say nuff?” asked Clarence, pausing, and standing still in the center of the ring.

For answer, Ezra made a flying leap at his foe, determined by sheer weight and momentum to bring Clarence to defeat. The young knight was quick to adjust himself. Ezra’s head, intended to ram the lad’s chest, found itself noosed within Clarence’s strong right arm. The catch nearly brought the young knight to the earth; but surefootedness won out, and Ezra was in chancery.

“Say ’nuff,” commanded Clarence, with a hug and a punch that were practically simultaneous.

Pete spoke sharply to Ezra.

“’Nuff,” said the gypsy boy.

“All right,” said Clarence, and releasing his hold left Ezra free and evidently much the worse for the short encounter.

The gypsies had been silent throughout the brisk combat. It was impossible to tell from their faces on which side their sympathies lay.

“Boy,” said Ben, slipping into the ring, “I’d advise you to shake hands with Ezra.”

“Happy thought,” gasped Clarence. “Say, Ezra, if you’ll tell Dora you’re sorry for taking liberties with her, I’ll be glad to shake hands with you.”

For answer, Ezra broke into half audible maledictions.

“What did he do?” asked Ben.

Clarence explained.

“You apologize,” said Ben sternly, on hearing the story, “or I’ll give you another licking myself.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ezra, with the worst possible grace.

Then Clarence caught Ezra’s hand and pumped it up and down with an assurance which was amazing.

The night was now well advanced, and dark clouds, black and heavy, had within the last half hour shut out the friendly eyes of the stars. A peal of distant thunder was heard.

“We’d better get ready for bed,” said Ben.

At his word, all seated themselves about the dying fire, save Pete and his wife who at once made for the larger tent. One of the children came running to Ben with a guitar; whereupon Dora rose and with clasped hands stood beside the young gypsy.

Ben, striking a few chords, nodded to Dora, who, at the nod, opened her lips and broke forth in as sweet a voice as ever awoke the woodlands of Wisconsin into—Gounod’s Ave Maria.

Clarence was spellbound. He was exalted, carried out of himself. It was not the voice alone, though the voice was thrillingly sweet; not the music, though the air was one that holds music-lovers rapt the world over; not the accompaniment, though it was supremely exquisite in the sacred silence of the night. There was more than all this; faith, and love, and purity, and innocence—all springing from the heart of a child—supplied undertones beyond the reach of art that music could supply.

As the song proceeded, the rain began to fall, but the rain was heeded by none—not even by the little children. Towards the end, the down-pour grew heavy; but spellbound, no one moved. As the last note died into silence, there ensued a few breathless seconds; then came a burst of thunder and a forked prong of lightning which seemed to strike into their very midst. All jumped up and made for cover.

“Come with me,” said Ben, catching Clarence’s hand. “Your quarters will be in the wagon. She sings,” he added, “that song every night, and,” continued the musician, as he helped Clarence into his new sleeping quarters, “she sings it like an angel.”

“So she does.”

“And,” added Ben, in a whisper, “she is an angel.”

Ten minutes later Clarence was lying upon a bed of straw, and meditating upon the events of the most adventurous day in his life. Around him lay four gypsy men—Ezra, Pete’s two older sons, and Ben. But he was, to all intents and purposes, alone. And then in bitterness and sorrow the young adventurer wept salt tears and checked with difficulty the sighs of utter misery. He was captive; his parents were, he supposed, frantic with grief. Perhaps they thought him dead. And so Clarence, frightened and unnerved, wept freely.

Suddenly the quiet was broken. The same sweet voice, low and clear, trilled out from the little tent:

“Mother dear, O pray for me,

??While far from heaven and thee

I wander in a fragile bark

??O’er life’s tempestuous sea.”

Clarence, at the first notes, stopped crying.

“By George!” he said to himself at the end of the first stanza, “Here’s the difference between that girl and me. I address myself to the bright-eyed goddess of adventure—and see where I am! And she calls on her dear Mother, who is also the Mother of God, and just look what Dora is!”

Before the second stanza was quite finished, the exhausted youth fell into a disturbed sleep. He tossed uneasily for a time, then murmuring as he turned, “Mother dear, O pray for me,” he was wrapped in a slumber which no noise could disturb.