They heard voices back of them.  Dave turned about and Wilbur rose from the grass.  Across the pasture came the girl, Patricia Whipple, followed at a little distance by Juliana.  The latter was no longer in church garb, but in a gray tweed skirt, white blouse, and a soft straw hat with a flopping brim.  There was a black ribbon about the hat and her stout shoes were of tan leather.  The girl was bare-headed, and Don Paley’s repair of yesterday’s damage was noticeable.  She came at a quickening pace, while Juliana followed slowly.  Juliana looked severe and formidable.  Never had her nose looked more the Whipple nose then when she observed Dave Cowan and his son at the stile.  Yet she smiled humorously when she recognized the boy, and allowed the humour to reach his father when she glanced at him.  Dave and Miss Juliana had never been formally presented.  Dave had seen Juliana, but Juliana had had until this moment no sight of Dave, for though there was in Newbern no social prejudice against a craftsman, and Dave might have moved in its highest circles, he had chosen to consort with the frankly ineligible.  He lifted his cap in a flourishing salute as Juliana and Patricia came through the stile.

“And how are you to-day, my young friend?” asked Juliana of Wilbur in her calm, deep voice.

The Wilbur twin said, “Very well, I thank you,” striving instinctively to make his own voice as deep as Juliana’s.

The girl winked at him brazenly as they passed on.

“Gypsies!” she called, exultantly, and Juliana swept him with a tolerant smile.

Dave Cowan watched them along the path to the ridge above the camp.  Here they paused in most intelligible pantomime.  Patricia Whipple wished to descend to the very heart of the camp, while Juliana could be seen informing the child that they were near enough.  To make this definite she sat upon the bole of a felled oak beside the path while Patricia jiggled up and down in eloquent objection to the untimely halt.  Dave read the scene and caressed his thick moustache with practiced thumb and finger.  His glance was sympathetic.

“The poor old maid!” he murmured.  “All that Whipple money, and she has to be just a small-towner!  Say, I bet no one has ever kissed that old girl since her mother died!  None of these small-town hicks would ever have the nerve to.  Yes, sir; any one’s got a right to be sorry for that dame.  If she had a little enterprise she’d branch out from here and meet a few people.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wilbur.  “But that girl wants to go down to the camp.”

This was plain.  Patricia still danced, while Juliana remained firmly seated.

“I could go take her down,” he continued.

“Why don’t you?” said his father, again stroking the golden moustache in sympathy for the unconscious Juliana.