“Yes, indeed!” cried Betty.  “I think it will be perfectly lovely.  It is so generous of you, Eugenia, to spend so much for our pleasure!”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” answered Eugenia, loftily.  “Plenty more where that came from.”

On the way to the house, Joyce met Mrs. Sherman driving toward her in a dog-cart.  “Do you want to drive down to the post-office with me?” she asked.  “There is room for one more.”

Joyce shook her head and walked on, singing gaily, over her shoulder, “Other fish to fry, so it can’t be I. Thank you kindly, ma’am!”

“Eugenia, Elizabeth, do either of you want to go?” Mrs. Sherman asked, stopping the dog-cart beside the hammock.

“No, I believe not, thank you,” said Eugenia, languidly.  “It’s so hot this morning.”

Betty’s mouth and eyes both opened in astonishment at the excuse Eugenia gave, and her godmother smiled at the sight.

“Well, Elizabeth,” she said, playfully, “I see that you are not going to leave me in the lurch.  I knew that I wouldn’t have to go begging far for company.”

“Oh, I’d love to go, godmother,” cried Betty, “if it was only any other time.  But I’ve just been invited to ride over to the gypsy camp with the girls.”

“To the gypsy camp!” echoed Mrs. Sherman, in surprise.  “Why are you going there?”

“To have our fortunes told,” answered the unsuspicious child, adding, gratefully, “Isn’t it good of Eugenia?  She is going to pay for all of us.”

A smothered exclamation broke from Eugenia’s lips, and she darted an angry look at Betty.  There was a shadow of annoyance on Mrs. Sherman’s face as she saw it.

“But you mustn’t go there,” she said.  “I am sorry to have to disappoint you, but I couldn’t think for a moment of allowing Lloyd to go there.  They are a rough, low set of people,—­gamblers and horse thieves.  It wouldn’t be proper for you little girls to go near them.  I intended to mention the matter to Lloyd when I first heard that they had camped in the Valley, and tell her to avoid taking you on any of the roads leading to the camp.  But I forgot it until you had ridden away.  It would have worried me all the time you were out had I not known that Lloyd is a discreet child for her age, and she heard so much said about them when they were here last summer.  I have never thought to mention it since that first day.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Eugenia; “I had set my heart on having my fortune told.”

Mrs. Sherman tapped the wheel of the dog-cart with the lash of her whip, and sat considering.  Presently she said, “Of course there isn’t any truth in the fortunes they tell.  One person knows just as much about the future as another.  But I am sorry for your disappointment, for I know at your age such things are entertaining.  How would it do for me to call at Miss Allison MacIntyre’s while I am out, and ask her to come up to dinner to-night?  She is a great friend of mine and knows enough about