With a gait that betokened indolence, and her entire appearance bearing out that suggestion, a girl with a bright-colored handkerchief on her head, sauntered along the path in the direction of the little party, who had been conferring in the “enclosure.” Her feet seemed weighed down with shoes many sizes beyond her real need, and her dress was so long that she looked as if she might have been playing grandmother up in some attic, and had forgotten to leave the things behind after the game.

“Well, Urania,” began Dorothy, smiling, “you are out early, aren’t you?”

“Haven’t been in yet,” drawled the girl. “So much fussin’ around the camp last night I just left the wagon to little Tommie, and made a bed out under the pines.”

“Fussing?” inquired Nat, showing keen interest in the girl’s remarks.

“Yes, comin’ and goin’ and—” She shot a quick glance at the boy who was listening so intently to her words. Then she peered through the wire cage over to the dove cote. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Your birds sick?”

“Worse,” spoke up Tavia. “They’re gone, stolen!”

“Flew the coop?” said the gypsy girl, with a grim smile. “Them pretty ones, with the pleated tails?”

“Yes, and those beautiful dark ones,” sighed Dorothy. “Those with all the colors—like sunset, you know.”

“Too bad,” murmured the strange girl. “Lots of chicken thieves around here lately. Dad says people will be blaming us. But we’ve been in this township every summer for ten years, and Dad is just as thick with the ‘cops’ as—the old woman is with the peddlars,” she finished, grinning at her own wit.

“You didn’t happen to hear any strangers around the camp last night, did you?” asked Ned, kindly.

“Heard more than that,” answered the girl. “But, say, I came over here to borrow something. Business is bad, and the old woman wants to know if you could just lend her a quarter. I didn’t want to ask, as I don’t forget good turns, and you’ve treated me all right,” with a nod to Dorothy. “But when the old woman says ‘go’ I’ve got to turn out. She’s gettin’ awful sassy lately.”

The girl dug the broken toe of her shoe deep into the soft sod. Evidently she did not relish asking the favor, and as Nat handed her the coin she looked up with a sad smile.

“Much obliged,” she stammered, “I’ll bring it back the first chance I get, if I—have to—steal it.”

“Oh, no! I’m making you a present of that,” the youth answered, pleasantly. “You mustn’t think of bringing it back. But about the noises at the camp last night? Did you say there were strangers about?”

“Might have been,” answered the girl slowly. “But you know gypsies never squeal.”

“I don’t expect you to,” followed Nat. “But you see my best birds are gone, and you, being a friend of ours, might help in the search for them.”

“So I might,” said Urania. “And if I found them?”

“Why, you would get the reward, of course. I’ve offered a dollar a piece for them—alive.”

“A dollar apiece?” she repeated. “And how many were swiped?”

“Six—the very best three pairs,” answered the young man. “I’ll have the reward published in to-night’s paper—”

“No, don’t,” interrupted the girl. “That’s what they’re after. Keep them guessing for a day or two, and well, maybe the doves will coo loud enough for you to hear them in the mean time.” At this the gypsy girl turned away, leaving the party to draw their own conclusions from her remarks.

And while the others stand gazing after Urania, we may take time to get acquainted with the various characters who will come and go in this story, and who have appeared in the other books of this series. As told in my first volume, called “Dorothy Dale: a Girl of To-Day,” Dorothy was a daughter of Major Dale, formerly of a little town called Dalton, but now living with his sister, Mrs. Winthrop White, at North Birchland. Dorothy’s chum, Octavia Travers, familiarly called Tavia, was the sort of girl who gets all the fun possible out of life, besides injecting a goodly portion of her own original nonsense into every available spot. Dorothy and Tavia had been chums since their early days in Dalton—chums of the sort that have absolute faith in each other: a faith sufficient to overcome all troubles and doubts, yes, even reports that might be sent out by the unthinking or the unkind, for Tavia naturally got into trouble and kept Dorothy busy getting her out.

Several instances of this kind were told of in the first book of the series; in the second called, “Dorothy Dale at Glenwood School,” Tavia developed still greater facilities for finding trouble, while Dorothy kept up with her in the matter of “development” in smoothing out the tangles. In the third volume, “Dorothy Dale’s Great Secret,” Tavia came very near “social shipwreck,” and no one but such a friend as Dorothy Dale proved herself to be, could have, and actually did, rescue her.

Mrs. Winthrop White, called by Dorothy, Aunt Winnie, was also an interesting character in the books. She was described by Tavia as a “society thoroughbred,” and was mother to Ned and Nat, the two jolly boys whose acquaintance we have just made. These boys were Dorothy’s cousins, of course, and Tavia’s friends. Tavia was spending part of her vacation with Dorothy at the Cedars, Mrs. White’s country place. The boys played an important part in the rescue of Tavia when she tried to “earn money by going on the stage” with a “barnstorming” company, when Dorothy herself got into complications at Glenwood School, (trying to assist a girl who proved entirely unworthy of the interest Dorothy manifested in her affairs,) it was Tavia who “helped out.” At Glenwood School we met some of the jolliest sort of boarding school girls, and were permitted to get a glimpse into the sacred life of those who consider every boarding school a college junior, and in imitating the college girl antics actually outdo their elders in the matter of fun making.

The gypsy girl, Urania, also appeared in a previous volume, and it was Dorothy’s characteristic wit that then helped the brown-eyed Urania out of a very unpleasant predicament.

And now this gypsy girl was offered a chance to return a kindness to Dorothy, for in getting trace of the stolen birds all who lived at the Cedars, would be relieved of worry, and spared much anxiety, for the birds had been great pets with the folks there.

But would Urania make her clues clear? Dare she risk gypsy vengeance to show her gratitude to Dorothy?

“She knows, all right,” remarked Nat, as the girl swung out into the roadway on her way to the camp. “But she’ll never tell,” added Ned. “She wouldn’t dare. That Melea, her stepmother, whom she calls the old woman, is a regular ‘tartar.’”

“I think,” ventured Dorothy, “she might give just a hint. We wouldn’t want her to do anything that would endanger herself. But if we guessed—”

“You’re the star guesser, Doro,” put in Tavia. “For my part I never was any good at that trick. You remember how near I came to the mark at the Glens’ Donkey party?”

“Then keep away from this tale,” said Nat laughing. “It wouldn’t do for the clue to be pinned on the wrong party.”

“I must have a talk with Urania alone,” Dorothy said, seriously. “I am sure she will tell me what she knows about the birds. I’ll go see her this afternoon—I want to go over to the camp with some things, and then I will get Urania to walk out with me. It wouldn’t do for Melea to see our two heads together.”

“Great idea,” commented Ned. “I quite agree with Tavia. You would make a star detective, Doro. And the best of it is no one would ever suspect you of being ‘on the rubber.’ Now Tavia—well, she just up and asks, the most impertinent questions—”

“For instance. Who that nice looking boy is who has been dodging around here lately?” interrupted Tavia, taking up the young man’s sally, and adding to the joke on herself. “I must say he is the smartest looking chap—”

“Oh, the fellow with the red cheeks?” asked Nat.

“Exactly,” answered Tavia, in a serious voice.

“And those deep blue eyes?” questioned Ned.

“I have not seen his eyes—close by,” admitted Tavia, “but with his hair, they must be deep blue,” and she looked entranced at the very thought of the “deep blue orbs.”

“Why, I haven’t seen this—Adonis,” said Dorothy, interested. “When might a body lay eyes on his perfection?”

“He goes along the river road every morning,” Tavia informed her companion, with great importance.

“And he carries a small leather case, like a doctor’s satchel—only different?” went on Nat.

“You have certainly observed him closely,” declared Tavia, still cherishing the importance of her “great find.” “Yes, I know him,” said Nat.

“So do I,” added Ned.

“Oh, who is he?” implored Tavia, “Do introduce us!”

“Just as you like,” assented Ned, “But he is only a boy—goes to school in Ferndale every day.”

“I thought so,” and Tavia was more interested than ever. “Where does he go? He is studying some profession, of course.”

“Hum,” grunted Nat, with a sly wink at Dorothy.

“But just what a hero might be studying, would, of course, not influence the opinion of such a broad-minded young woman as Tavia Travers,” challenged Ned.

“I should say—no!” declared Tavia, with mock dramatic effect.

“Well, then, that boy is studying a most remunerative and heroic profession,” went on Ned.

“I knew it,” cried Tavia, bounding over in front of Ned to get the important information.

“Yes, he is studying—the plumbing business,” said Ned, and the way he looked at Tavia—well, she just dropped in a lump at his feet, and when Nat fetched the wheelbarrow, she still played limp, so they put her in the barrow, wheeled her up the path, and she “stayed put,” until they actually carried her indoors.

When she “recovered,” she declared she would waylay the plumber the very next morning, and have him look over some little jobs that might be found in need of looking over, by just such an intelligent youth. The boys seconded this motion, and agreed that a good plumber was a much more desirable acquaintance than might be a fellow who studied so many other languages that he necessarily forgot entirely his interest in English.

“Besides,” said Nat, “A nice little plumber like that, with deep blue hair and red eyes—”

“And a lunch box that looks like a doctor’s kit,” interrupted Ned.

“Just jealous,” snapped Tavia. “I once knew the loveliest plumber, never charged me a cent for fixing my bike.”

“And you would forget him for this stranger!” said Dorothy, in tragic tones.

“No, indeed. I would think of this one in memory of the o-th-er!” answered Tavia, clapping her hand over her heart, and otherwise giving “volume” to her assertion.

“Well,” sighed Nat, “If it’s all the same to the ladies, we will continue our search for the missing birds. Can’t afford to let them get too far away, and the morning is wasting.”

“Hanged if I’ll tramp another step,” objected Ned, “not for all the birds in Paradise. My feet are so lame now they feel like the day after a ball match, and besides, Nat, unless we get an airship and explore further up, it’s no use. We’ve covered all the lowland territory.”

“All but the swamp,” admitted Nat, “and I have some hopes of the swamp. That would be just the place to hide a barrel full of stolen pigeons.”

“Or we might look in somebody’s pot-pie,” drawled the brother, indifferently.

“No, sir,” declared Dorothy, “Those birds would begin to sing when the pie was opened. Now you boys had better let me take this case. I have a feeling I will be able to land the game. But I can’t have any interference.”

“Go ahead, and good luck,” said Ned. “Take the case, the feeling, the game, the whole outfit. You’re welcome,” and he stretched himself in the hammock with such evident relish that Tavia could not resist slipping around the other side, and giving the hammock a push that “emptied,” the weary boy on the red rug beneath the “corded canopy.” He lay there—turned up a corner of the carpet for a pillow, and remarked that in his earlier days, it was said of him that he could roll out of bed and “finish up on the floor,” and he “guessed he hadn’t quite forgotten the trick.”

“Now this afternoon I’ll go down to the camp,” announced Dorothy. “So don’t expect me back—until you see me.”

“Is that a threat?” joked Nat. “Sounds so like the kind of note one gets pinned to the pillow when there’s been a row. ‘Don’t expect me back. I am gone out of your life for ever—’” and he pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, while Ned just rolled around in “agony” at the thought.

“And she was such a sweet girl!” wailed Tavia, adding her “howl” to the noise.

Such a racket!

Mrs. White appeared at the French window. “What in the world is the matter?” she demanded, beholding Ned with his face buried in the carpet, Nat with his eyes covered in his handkerchief, and Tavia with both arms “wrapped around her forehead.”

“Oh, mother!” sobbed Nat. “We mustn’t expect her back—”

“And she won’t stand for any interference!” groaned Ned. “And she’s going with the gypsies,” blubbered Tavia.

“Well,” and Mrs. White joined in the laugh that now evolved from the reign of terror. “You children do find more ways of amusing yourselves! But it might not be a bad idea to get ready for luncheon,” with a sly look at Tavia’s uncovered slip. “Those pigeons seem to have rather upset the regime.”

“I’m off!” shouted Tavia, with a bound over the low rail of the porch.

“I’m on!” added Nat making himself comfortable on the “tete” beneath the honey-suckle vines.

“I’m in!” remarked Ned, as he slipped into the hammock.

“And I’m out!” declared Dorothy, with a light laugh, as she jumped off the steps “out” into the path, then was gone to follow the suggestion of her Aunt Winnie, for Dorothy had learned that to follow the house rules was the most important line in the social code of Mrs. Winthrop White.