Without waiting for further explanation, Pompton whizzed away in the big car to find the public officials, and set them on trail of the gypsies.  For though unsuccessful, their base attempt at kidnapping ought not to go unpunished.

Kingdon told a straightforward story of all that had happened.  Unlike Marjorie, he was not overcome by emotion, and though somewhat excited after the experience they had had, he gave a clear and direct account of it all.

Mrs. Maynard held Marjorie closer as she heard of the danger they had been in, and Mr. Maynard laid his hand on the shoulder of his tall son, and heartily exonerated him from all blame in the matter.

“I suppose,” King said, a little dubiously, “we ought not to have gone on to the camp; but Mops,—­I mean, we were both thirsty,—­and we thought it was a farmhouse.”

“Of course you did,” said Mrs. Maynard; “you did nothing wrong whatever.”

“I did,” said Midget, penitently; “after we passed the horrid basket-man, King sort of thought he was a gypsy, and he thought we’d better turn back, but I insisted on going on.”

“Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed King.  “Mops isn’t a bit to blame!  I did think maybe the man was a gypsy,—­and I ought to have insisted on going back.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Maynard, “don’t strive so hard for the honor of being to blame.  It’s all over now, and for the present let’s forget it, while we eat our luncheon, because it might interfere with our digestion.  We’re truly thankful to have you back, and we’re going to show our thankfulness by not worrying or lamenting over what might have been.”

Mr. Maynard’s gaiety, though it was really a little forced, had a good effect on the others.  For, had he taken a melancholy attitude, they were quite ready to follow suit.

As it was, they all cheered up, and with bright faces followed Mr. Maynard to the dining-room.  Kitty slipped her hand in Marjorie’s as they went along.  She had said little while the story was being told, but as Marjorie well knew, silence with Kitty was always indicative of deep emotion.

The inn, though modern, was copied after a quaint old plan, and the low-ceiled, raftered dining-room greatly pleased the children.  There were seats along the wall—­something like church pews,—­with long tables in front of them.  Mr. Maynard had ordered a dainty and satisfying luncheon, and Marjorie and King soon found that thrilling experiences improve the appetite.

Led by Mr. Maynard, the table talk was gay, light, and entertaining; and though Mrs. Maynard could not quite play up to this key, yet she did her best, and carefully hid the tremors that shook her as she looked at her two older children.

“What became of Minnie Meyer?” asked Marjorie, suddenly, for in the stress of circumstances she had almost forgotten the lame girl.

“I tried my best to persuade her to lunch with us,” said Mrs. Maynard, “but she would not do so.  She was very shy and timid, and though very glad to have the ride, she was unwilling to let us do more for her.  She had many errands to attend to, and she was sure of a ride home, so she said we need not worry about her.”