But Launcelot shook his head.  “It’s all very romantic from the outside,” he said, “but the women don’t have a very good time.  They tramp the dusty roads in summer and almost freeze in their open wagons in the winter, and they bear most of the burdens.  Those men are handsome, all right, but some of them are brutes.”

As he spoke the leader of the band came back up the path.

“Come to our camp, pretty lady,” he said, flashing his dark eyes upon Judy, “and our queen will tell your fortune.  For a piece of silver she will tell you the things that are past and the things that are to come.”

“Oh, will she?” asked Judy, eagerly.  “Will you be at the camp next Saturday?”

“We will be there until you come,” said the gipsy with a glance of admiration at her vivid face.

But Launcelot’s hand was clenched at his side.  He did not like that fellow’s face or his manner, he told himself, and Judy should not go near that camp if he could help it.

“You don’t want to have your fortune told, Judy,” he said, a little roughly.

Judy’s eyebrows went up in surprise.  “I do,” she said.  “It’s fun.”

“It’s silly,” contended Launcelot, doggedly.

The gipsy’s eyes flashed from one to the other.

“You will come,” he urged, ignoring Launcelot, and addressing his question to Judy.

“Yes.”

“On Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Good; we will welcome you, pretty lady.”  And with a defiant glance at the big angry boy, the dark Hungarian swung down the path, singing as he went.

“You are not going,” said Launcelot, when the man was out of sight.

“I am.”

“Then I shall tell the Judge.”

“Telltale.”

Launcelot stood up and glowered at her.

“Who do you think will go with you?”

“You.”  There was a laugh in Judy’s eyes, as she made the impertinent answer.

“I won’t.”

“Not if I ask you?”

“Not under any circumstances.  It isn’t the place for you, Judy.”

Then he sat down beside her.  “Look here,” he said, in a wheedling tone, “if I were really your big brother, I wouldn’t let you go.  Can’t you let me order you around a little, just as if I were—?”

Judy caught her breath.  Why would he use that tone?  It always made her feel as if she wanted to give in—­but she wouldn’t.

“I am going,” she said, slowly, although she did not look at him, “if I have to go alone.”

“Then I shall tell the Judge.”

“Oh,” Judy’s tone was cutting, “I always did hate boys.”

For a moment Launcelot’s face flamed, then most unexpectedly he laughed.

“You don’t hate me, Judy,” he said, “you know you don’t.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t,” he went on, and there was no anger in his voice, only good-natured tolerance that made Judy’s temper seem very childish.  “You are angry now.  But you are not that kind of girl—­”