pull you up.”

But it required a sturdy arm to hold on to the tree branch and pull the girl up. Several times Nat lost his footing and slid some distance, but the street level was finally gained, and the strange girl brought to the road in safety.

The moonlight fell across her slim figure, and revealed the outlines of a very queer little creature indeed. She was dark, with all the characteristics of the Gypsy marked in her face.

Dorothy and Nat surveyed her critically. Whatever could a child of her age be doing all alone there, in that deserted place after nightfall?

“Thanks,” said the girl to Nat, as she rubbed her bare feet on the damp grass. “I almost fell.”

“Almost?” repeated Nat, “I thought you did fall—you must have hit that big rock there. I know it for I used to fish from the same place, and it’s not exactly a divan covered with sofa cushions.”

“Yes, I did hit my side on it,” admitted the girl, “but it doesn’t hurt much.”

“What is your name?” asked Dorothy, stepping closer to the stranger.

“Urania. But I’m going to change it. I don’t believe in Urania any more.”

“Then you are a Gypsy girl,” spoke Nat. “I thought I’d seen you before.”

“Yes, they say I’m a Gypsy girl, but I’m tired of the business and I’m going away.”

“Where?” asked Dorothy.

“Any place as long as it’s not back to camp. I left it to-night and I’m never going back to it again—never! never!” and the girl shook her disheveled head in very positive emphasis.

“Why?” asked Dorothy. “You’re too young to be out alone and at night. You must be frightened; aren’t you?”

“Frightened?” and the girl laughed derisively. “What is there to be afraid of? I know all the snakes and toads, besides the birds.”

“Aren’t there tramps?” inquired Nat.

“Perhaps. But it would take a slick tramp to catch me. Gypsy girls know how to run, if they can’t read and write.”

It seemed to Dorothy that this remark was tinged with bitterness; as if the girl evidently felt the loss of 

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