you won't. I'm silly,--well, I'll tell you what I am by-and-by. First, I
want to hear all about you,--everything, I mean," she added, with a quick
delicacy, of which, for "blundering Gypsy," she had a great
deal,--"everything that you care to tell me."

"Why, I've nothing to tell," said Peace, smiling, "cooped up here all the
time; it's all the same."

"That's just what I want to hear about. About the being cooped up. I don't
see _how you bear it_!" said Gypsy, impetuously.

Peace smiled again. Gypsy had a fancy that the smile had stolen one of the
sunbeams that lay in such golden, flickering waves, upon the bed.

Too much self-depreciation is often a sign of the extremest vanity. Peace
had nothing of this. Seeing that Gypsy was in earnest in her wish to hear
her story, she quietly began it without further parley. It was very
simple, and quickly told.

"We used to live on a farm on the mountains--father and mother and I.
There were a great many cattle, and so much ground it tired me to walk
across it. I always went to school, and father read to us in the evenings.
I suppose that's the way I've learned to love to read, and I've been so
glad since. I was pretty small when they died,--first father, then mother.
I remember it a little; at least I remember about mother,--she kissed me
so, and cried. Then Aunt Jane came for me, and brought me here. We lived
in a pleasant house up the street, at first. I used to work in the mill,
and earned enough to pay aunt what I cost her. Then one day, when I was
thirteen years old, we were coming out at noon, all of us girls, in a
great hurry and frolic, and I felt sick and dizzy watching the wheels go
round, and,--well, they didn't mean to,--but they pushed me, and I fell."

"Down stairs?"

"All the way,--it was a long, crooked flight. I struck my spine on every
step."

"Oh, Peace!" said Gypsy, half under her breath.

"I was sick for a little while; then I got better. I thought it was all
over. Then one day I found a little curve between my shoulders, and
so,--well, it came so slowly I hardly knew it, till at last I was in bed
with the pain. We had come here because it was hard times, and aunt had to
support me,--and then there were the doctor's bills."

"Doesn't he say you can _ever_ get well? never sit up a little while?"

"Oh, no."

Gypsy gasped a little, as if she were suffocating.

"And your aunt,--is she kind to you?"

"Oh, yes."

A certain flitting expression, that the face of Peace caught with the
words, Gypsy could not help seeing.

"But I mean, real kind. Does she love you?"

The girl's cheek flushed to a pale, quick crimson, then faded slowly.

"She is very good to me. I am a great trouble. You know I am not her own.
It is very hard for her that I can't support myself."

Gypsy said something just then, in her innermost thought of thoughts,
about Aunt Jane, that Aunt Jane would not have cared to hear.

"If I could only earn something!" said Peace, with a quick breath, that
sounded like a sigh. "That is hardest of all. But it's all right somehow."

"Peace Maythorne!" said Gypsy, in a little flash, "I don't see! never to
go out in the wind and jump on the hay, and climb the mountains, and run
and row and snowball,--why, it would _kill_ me! And you lie here so sweet
and patient, and you haven't said a cross word all the while you've been
telling me about it. I don't understand! How can you, _can_ you bear it?"

"I couldn't, if I didn't tell Him," said Peace, softly.

"Whom?"

"God."

There was a long silence. Gypsy looked out of the window, winking very
hard, and Peace lay quite still upon the bed.

"There!" said Gypsy, at last, with a jump. "I shall be late to school."

"Oh," said Peace, "you haven't told me anything about yourself; you said
you would."

"Well," said Gypsy, tying on her hat, "that's easy enough done. I'm silly
and cross, and forgetful and blundering."

"I don't believe it," said Peace, laughing.

"I am," said Gypsy, confidentially; "it's all true; and I'm always tearing
my dresses, and worrying father, and getting mad at Winnie, and bothering
Miss Melville, and romping round, and breaking my neck! and then, when
things don't go right, how I scold!"

Peace smiled, and looked incredulous.

"It's just so," said Gypsy, giving a little sharp nod to emphasize her
words. "And here you lie, and never think of being cross and impatient,
and love everybody and everybody loves you, and--well, all I have to say
is, if I were you I should have scolded everybody out of the house long
before this!"

"You mustn't talk so about me," said Peace, a faint shadow of pain
crossing her face. "You don't know how wicked I am--nobody knows; I am
cross very often. Sometimes when my back aches as if I should scream, and
aunt is talking, I hide my face under the clothes, and don't say a word to
her."

"You call _that_ being cross!" said Gypsy, with her eyes very wide open.
She buttoned on her sack, and started to go, but stopped a minute.

"I don't suppose you'd want me to come again--I'm so noisy, and all."

"Oh, I should be so glad!" said Peace, with one of those rare smiles: "I
didn't dare to ask you."

"Well; I'll come. But I told you you wouldn't like me."

"I do," said Peace. "I like you very much."

"How funny!" said Gypsy. Then she bade her good-by, and went to school.

"Mother," she said, at night, "did you have any particular reason in
sending me to Peace Maythorne?"

"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Breynton, smiling. "Why?"

"Nothing, only I thought so. You were a very wise woman."

A while after she spoke up, suddenly.

"Mother, don't the Quakers say good matches are made in heaven?"

"Who's been putting sentimental ideas into the child's head?" said her
father, in an undertone.

"Why, Gypsy Breynton!" said Winnie, looking very much shocked; "you hadn't
ought to say such things. Of course, the brimstone falls down from hell,
and they pick it up and put it on the matches!"

"What made you ask the question?" said Mrs. Breynton, when the laugh had
subsided.

"Oh, I was only thinking, I guessed Peace Maythorne's name was made in
heaven. It so exactly suits her."

After that, the cripple's little quiet room became one of the places Gypsy
loved best in Yorkbury.

Two or three weeks after that Mrs. Littlejohn, who had been gaining
rapidly in strength and good temper under Mrs. Breynton's wise and kindly
care, took it into her head one morning, when she was alone, to walk
across the room, and look out of the window. The weakened limb was not in
a fit state to be used at all, and the shock given to it was very great.
Inflammation set in, and fever, and the doctor shook his head, and asked
if the old woman had any friends living anywhere; if so, they had better
be sent for. But the poor creature seemed to be desolate enough; declared
she had no relatives, and was glad of it; she only wanted to be let alone,
and she should get well fast enough.

She never said that when Mrs. Breynton was in the room. Gypsy went down
one evening with her mother, to help her carry a bundle of fresh
bed-clothing, and she was astonished at the gentleness which had crept
into the old withered face and peevish voice. Mrs. Littlejohn called her
up to the bed, just as she started to go.

"I say, little gal, I told ye a fib the day ye fust come. I did have a
dinner, though it war a terrible measly one--Mrs. Breynton, marm!"

Mrs. Breynton stepped up to her.

"What was that ye read t'other day, 'bout liars not goin'clock into the
kingdom of heaven?--I 'most forgot."

Gypsy crept out, softly. She was wondering how her mother had managed her
charity to this fretful old woman so wisely, that her words, unfitly
spoken, were becoming a trouble to herself, and her hours of increasing
pain turned into hours of late, faint repentance. Perhaps the charm lay in
a certain old book, dog-eared and worn, and dusty from long disuse on the
cupboard shelf. This little book Mrs. Breynton had found, and she had read
in it many times, until that painful groaning ceased.

And so one night it chanced that the old yellow cat sat blinking at the
light, and the yellow, furrowed face turned over on the pillow and smiled,
and lay still. The light burned out, and the morning came; the cat jumped
purring upon the bed, and seeing what was there, curled up by it, with a
mournful mewing cry.

"Peace Maythorne says," said Gypsy, "that if Mrs. Littlejohn went to
heaven, she will be so happy _to find she doesn't scold_! Isn't it funny,
in Peace, to think of such things?"

CHAPTER IX

CAMPING OUT

Do you remember Mr. Gough's famous story of the orator who, with a great
flourish of rhetoric as prelude, announced to his audience the startling
fact that there was a "gre--at difference in people?" On the strength of
this original statement, it has been supposed that there were a variety of
tastes to be suited in selecting for the readers of "Gypsy Breynton" the
most entertaining passages of this one summer in her life. The last two
chapters were for the quiet young people. This one is for the lively young
people--the people who like to live out of doors, and have adventures, and
get into difficulties, and get over them. The quiet people aforesaid need
not read it, if they don't want to.

Did you ever "camp out"?

If you ever did, or ever very much wanted to, you will know how Gypsy felt
one morning after her summer vacation had begun, and she was wondering
what she should do with herself all day, when Tom came into her room and
said,--

"Gypsy, don't you wish you were a boy? I'm going to spend a week at
Ripton, with Hallam."

"Mr. Hallam!" exclaimed Gypsy. Mr. Guy Hallam was a lawyer about thirty
years old; but Tom had the natural boy's feeling about "mistering" any
one, that he had gone on fishing excursions with, ever since he could
remember; while Gypsy was more respectful.

"Ripton!" said Gypsy, again; "Oh, dear me!"

"And going to camp out and have a fire, and cook our trout, and shoot our
rabbits," said Tom, with an aggravating appearance of indifference, as if
these were only a specimen of innumerable delights unmentioned.

"Oh, dear _me_!" said Gypsy, with a long sigh.

"There are several disadvantages in being a girl, my dear, as you will
find out, occasionally," said Tom, with a lordly air.

"Girls are just as good as boys!" answered Gypsy, flashing up.

"Only they can't camp out."

"I'm not so sure of that, sir."

"Indeed!"

"Girls do camp out; I've heard about it; parties of ladies and gentlemen
go out up on the Adirondacks. You might take Sarah Rowe and me."

Tom smiled a very superior smile.

"Come, Tom, do--there's a good fellow!"

"Take along a couple of girls that can't fish, and scream when you shoot a
squirrel, and are always having headaches, and spraining their ankles, and
afraid to be left alone? No, thank you!"

"I can fish, and I'm no more afraid to be left alone than you are!" said
Gypsy, indignantly. "I'll go and ask mother."

She ran down stairs, slamming all the doors, and rushed noisily into the
parlor.

"Oh, mother! Tom's going to camp out with Mr. Guy Hallam, and can't Sarah
and I go, too?"

"Oh, what now?" said Mrs. Breynton, laughing, and laying down her work.

"Only for a week, mother, up Ripton--just think! With a tent and a fire,
and Mr. Hallam to take care of us."

This last remark was a stroke of policy on Gypsy's part, for Tom had come
in, and it touched a bit of boy's pride, of which Gypsy was perfectly
aware he had a good deal.

"As if I couldn't take as good care of you as Guy Hallam, or the next
man!" he said, in an insulted tone.

"Then Tom is willing you should go," observed Mrs. Breynton.

"Why--I don't know," said Tom, who had not intended to commit himself; "I
didn't say so."

"But you will say so--now, there's a dear, good Tom!" said Gypsy, giving
him a soft kiss on one cheek. Gypsy did not very often kiss Tom unless he
asked her, and it was the best argument she could have used; for, though
Tom always pretended to be quite above any interest in such tender
proceedings, yet this rogue of a sister looked so pink and pretty and
merry, with her arms about his neck and her twinkling eyes looking into
his, that there was no resisting her. Gypsy was quite conscious of this
little despotism, and was enough of a diplomatist to reserve it for rare
and important occasions.

"We--ell," said Tom, slowly; "I don't know as I care, if Hallam
doesn't--just for once, you understand; you're not to ask me again as long
as you live."

"There, there!" cried Gypsy, clapping her hands, and jumping up and down.
"Tom, you are a cherub--a wingless cherub. Now, mother!"

"But supposing it rains?" suggested Mrs. Breynton.

"Oh, we'll take our water-proofs."

"The tent will be dry enough," put in Tom, bringing in his forces like a
good soldier, now he was fairly enlisted.

"But if you catch cold and get sick, my dear; Tom won't want to cut short
his excursion to bring you home."

"There's Mr. Fisher, right on top of the mountain; he'd bring me in his
wagon. Besides, I wouldn't be silly enough to get sick."

"But Sarah might."

"Sarah does as I tell her," said Gypsy, significantly. "I should take care
of her."

"But Mrs. Rowe may not be willing Sarah should go, and Mr. Guy Hallam must
be asked, Gypsy."

"Well, but----," persisted Gypsy; "if Mrs. Rowe and Mr. Hallam and
everybody are willing, may I go?"

"Well," said Mrs. Breynton, after a few minutes' thinking, "I guess so; if
Tom will take good care of you; and if you will promise to go to Mr.
Fisher's the rainy nights--I mean if it rains hard."

"Oh, mother, mother Breynton! There never was such a dear little woman in
this world!"

"Why, my _dear_!" said Mr. Breynton, when he heard of it; "how can you let
the child do such a thing? She will fall off the precipice, or walk right
into a bear's den, the first thing."

"Oh, I'll trust her," answered her mother, smiling; "and then, Mrs. Fisher
will be so near, and so ready to take care of her if it is cold or wet; it
isn't as if she were going off into a wild place; of course, then, I
shouldn't let her go without some grown woman with them."

"Well, my dear, I suppose you know best. I believe I agreed to let you do
as you pleased with your girl, seeing she's the only one."

Mrs. Rowe was willing if Mrs. Breynton were willing; Mr. Guy Hallam had no
objections. Sarah was delighted, Gypsy radiant, Tom patronizing, and
Winnie envious, and so, amid a pleasant little bustle, the preparations
began, and one sunny morning the party stowed themselves and their baggage
comfortably away in Mr. Surly's double-seated wagon (much to the horror of
his excellent wife, who looked out of the window, and wondered if Miss
Rowe did expect that wild young un of hers to come home alive), and
trotted briskly out of Yorkbury, along the steep, uneven road that led to
the mountain.

Ripton was a long ride from Yorkbury, and the wagon was somewhat crowded,
owing to the presence of Mr. Surly, who was by no means a thin man, and
who acted as driver. He was to return with his "team," as the Vermont
farmers invariably call their vehicles, and when the party were ready to
come home Mr. Fisher was to be hired to bring them down. It would have
been unsafe for any but an experienced driver to hold the reins on those
mountain roads, as Gypsy was convinced, afresh, before the ride was over.

For the first few miles the way led along the beautiful valley of the
Otter Creek, and then grew suddenly steep as they began to ascend the
mountain. Such beautiful pictures unfolded before them, as they wound
slowly up, that even Gypsy did not feel like talking, and it was a very
silent party.

They passed through pine forests, dense and still, where the wind was
hoarse, and startled squirrels flew over the fallen trunks and boughs of
ruined trees. They rode close to the edge of sheer precipices four hundred
feet down, with trout-brooks, like silver threads, winding through the
gorges. Great walls of rock rose above and around them, and seemed to shut
them in with a frown. Sharp turns in the road brought them suddenly to the
edge of abysses from which, in dark nights, they might have easily ridden
off. Gay flowers perfumed the fresh, high winds, and rank mosses grew and
twined, and hung thickly upon old stones and logs and roadside banks,
where the mountain sloped steeply. Far above were the tops of those tall,
sentinel trees, called, by Vermonters, the Procession of Pines, the tower
above their lesser comrades two by two, regular, solemn, and dark against
the sky for miles of forest-track. Between these were patches and glimpses
of a sky without a cloud. Gypsy had seen it all many times before; but it
was always new and grand to her; it always made the blood leap in her
veins and the stars twinkle in her eyes, and set her happy heart to
dreaming a world of pleasant dreams.

She was leaning back against the wagon-seat, with her face upturned, to
watch the leaves flutter in the distant forest-top, when Mr. Surly reined
up suddenly, and the wagon stopped with a jerk.

"I declare!" said Mr. Guy Hallam.

"Waal, this is sum'at of a fix neow," said Mr. Surly, climbing out over
the wheel.

"What's the matter?" asked Gypsy and Sarah, in one breath, jumping up to
see.

"Matter enough," said Tom.

For, turning a sharp corner just ahead of them, was a huge wood-cart,
drawn by two struggling horses. The road was just wide enough for one
vehicle; where their wagon stood, it would have been simply impossible to
place two abreast. At their right, the wooded slope rose like a wall. At
their left, a gorge two hundred feet deep yawned horribly, and the
trout-brook gurgled over its stones.

"You hold on there," shouted the driver of the wood-cart; "I'll turn in
here anigh the mountain. You ken git by t'other side, can't you?"

"Reckon so," said Mr. Surly, measuring the distance with his eye. He
climbed in again, and took the reins, and the driver of the wood-cart
wheeled up into a semi-circular widening of the road where a sand-heap had
been dug away. The space left was just wide enough for a carriage to pass
closely without grazing the wheels of the wood-cart, or the low log which
formed the only fence on the edge of the ravine.

"Oh, we shall certainly tip over and be killed! Oh dear, let me get out!"
cried Sarah, as the wagon passed slowly forward.

"Hush up!" said Gypsy, quickly. "Tom won't let us go, if you act so. Don't
you suppose four grown men know better than we do whether it's safe? I'm
not afraid a bit."

Nevertheless, Gypsy and Tom, and even Mr. Hallam, looked narrowly at the
old frail log, and down into the gorge where the water was gurgling. Once
the wheels grazed the log, and it tilted slightly. Sarah screamed aloud.
Mr. Surly knew what he was about, however, and knew how to do it. He
passed on safely into the wider road, and the wood-cart rattled composedly
on.

"There a'r'd a ben a purty close shave in the night," he remarked, coolly,
pointing with his whip down the precipice. "There was a team went down
here five years ago,--jist off that maple-tree there,--horse, wagin, and
all, an'clock two men, brothers they was, too; one man hung onto a branch
or suthin'clock, and was ketched and saved; t'other one got crushed to
jelly. It was a terrible dark night."

Even Gypsy gave a little shiver during this entertaining conversation, and
was glad they had come up in the daytime.

Mr. Surly drove to a certain by-road in the woods, where he left them, and
returned home; and the party proceeded on foot, with their baggage, to the
place Mr. Hallam had chosen as a camp-ground.

It was a pleasant spot, far enough in the woods to be still and wild, near
enough to the little settlement on top of the mountain to be free from
bears, as Sarah had required to be informed ten separate times, on the
way. There was a little, natural clearing among the trees, which Mr.
Hallam and Tom made larger by cutting down the shrubbery and saplings.
They had brought hatchets with them, as well as guns, knives, and
fish-hooks. It seemed very warlike and real, Gypsy thought--quite as if
they intended to spend the rest of their lives there. She almost wished a
party of Indians would come and attack them, or a bear or a wolf.

Having selected a smooth, level spot for the tents, Mr. Hallam thought
they had better put them up immediately. It chanced that he and Tom each
owned one, which was a much better arrangement than the dividing of one
into two apartments. The two were placed side by side, and the girls' tent
was distinguished and honored by a bit of a flag on top, and an extra fold
of rubber-cloth in front, to keep out the rain. There was also a ditch dug
around it, to drain off the water in case of a severe storm.

"Besides, if it rains very hard, they can be sent to Mr. Fisher's," said
Tom.

"Catch me!" said Gypsy. "Why, it would be all the fun to sleep out in the
rain."

While Mr. Hallam and Tom were setting up the tents--and it took a long
time--the two girls busied themselves unpacking the baggage.

They were really astonished to find how much they had brought, when it was
all taken out of the baskets and boxes and bags, and each article provided
with a place within or without the tents. To begin with, the little girls
had each a bag of such things as were likely to be necessary for their
mountain toilet, consisting principally of dry stockings; for, as Gypsy
said, they expected to wet their feet three or four times a day, and she
should enjoy it for once. Then they had brought their long waterproof
cloaks, in which they considered themselves safe from a deluge. There were
plenty of fish-lines, and tin pans and kettles, and knives and steel
forks, and matches, and scissors and twine and needles, and the endless
variety of accoutrements necessary to a state of highly-civilized
camp-life. There were plates and mugs and pewter teaspoons,--Mrs. Breynton
would not consent to letting her silver ones go,--and Gypsy thought the
others were better, because it seemed more like "being wild." Indeed, she
would have dispensed with spoons altogether, but Sarah gave a little
scream at the idea, and thought she couldn't possibly eat a meal without.
Then the provision basket was full of bread and butter and cake and pies,
and summer apples and salt and pepper, and Indian meal and coffee, and
eggs and raw meat, and fresh vegetables. They expected, however, to live
chiefly on the trout which Mr. Hallam and Tom were to catch, and Mrs.
Fisher would supply them with fresh milk from her dairy.

The girls made their toilet arrangements in one corner of their tent. A
rough box served as a dressing-table, and Sarah had brought a bit of a
looking-glass, which she put on top of it. They collected piles of sweet,
dry leaves for a bed, and a certain thoughtful mother had tucked into
their bags a pair of sheets and a blanket; so they were nicely fitted out.
Gypsy had a secret apprehension that they were preparing for a very
luxurious sort of camp-life. After a little consultation, they decided to
make two rooms out of their tent, as they were sadly in need of a kitchen.
Accordingly they took their heavy blanket shawls, tied them together by
the fringe, and hung them up as a curtain across the middle of the tent.
The front apartment served nicely as a kitchen, and the provisions and
crockery were moved in there, in spite of Tom's ungallant remark that he
and Mr. Hallam should never see any of the pies he knew.

By way of recompense, he took the guns, and all dangerous implements,
under his own care.

The afternoon was nearly spent, when their preparations were at last
completed, and they were ready to begin house-keeping.

"Let's have supper," said Gypsy. Gypsy was always ready to have supper,
whenever dinner-time was passed.

"We haven't a single trout," said Tom.

"It is rather late to fish," said Mr. Hallam. "The little girls are tired
and hungry,--indeed we all are, for that matter,--and I guess we will have
supper."

Gypsy installed herself as housekeeper-in-general, and she and Sarah lost
no time in unpacking the cake and bread and butter. Tom collected some
light, dry brushwood for a fire, and he and Mr. Hallam made the coffee. It
seemed as if no supper had ever tasted as that supper did. The free
mountain air was so fresh and strong, and the breath of the pines so
sweet. It was so pleasant to sit on the moss around a fire, and eat with
your fingers if you chose, without shocking anybody. Then the woods looked
so wide and lonely and still, and it was so strange to watch the great red
sunset dying like a fire through the thick green net-work, where the
pine-boughs and the maple interlaced.

For about five minutes after supper was cleared away, when the great
shadows began to darken among the trees, Sarah discoursed in a vague,
scientific way, about the habits of bears, and Gypsy had a dim notion that
she shouldn't so very much object to see her mother come walking up the
mountain, seized with an uncontrollable desire to spend a night in a tent.
But Tom was so pleasant and merry, and Mr. Hallam told such funny stories,
that they were laughing before they knew it, and the evening passed
happily away.

Gypsy could not sleep for some time that night, for delight at spending a
night out doors in a real tent on a real mountain, that was known to have
an occasional real bear on it. She did not feel afraid in the least,
although Sarah had a very uncomfortable way of asking her, every ten
minutes, if she were perfectly _sure_ it was safe.

"Oh, don't!" said Gypsy, at last. "I am having such a good time thinking
that I'm really here. You go to sleep."

Sarah was so much accustomed to doing as Gypsy told her, that she turned
over and went to sleep without another word. It was not a good thing for
Gypsy to be so much with just such a girl as Sarah. She was physically the
weaker of the two, as well as the more timid, and she had fallen into a
habit of obeying, and Gypsy of commanding, by a sort of mutual tacit
agreement. It was partly for this reason, as was natural enough, that
Gypsy chose her so often for a companion, but principally because Sarah
never refused any romp or adventure; other timid girls liked to have their
own way and choose their own quiet plays. Sarah's timidity yielded to
Gypsy's stronger will. If Gypsy took a fancy to climb a ruined windmill,
Sarah would scream all the way, but follow. If Gypsy wanted to run at full
speed down a dangerous steep hill, where there were walls to be leaped,
and loose, rolling stones to be dodged, Sarah scolded a little, but went.

A girl more selfish than Gypsy would have been ruined by this sort of
companionship. Her frank, impulsive generosity saved her from becoming
tyrannical or dictatorial. The worst of it was, that she was forced to
form such a habit of always taking the lead.

She lay awake some time that night after Sarah had fallen asleep,
listening to the strange whispers of the wind in the trees, and making
plans for to-morrow, until at last her happy thoughts faded into happy
dreams.

She did not know how long she had been asleep, when something suddenly
woke her. She was a little startled at first by the unfamiliar sight of
the tent-roof, and narrow, walled space which shut her in. The wind was
sighing drearily through the forest, the distant scream of an owl had an
ugly sound; and--why no--but yes!--another sound, more ugly than the cry
of a night-bird, was distinct at the door of the tent--the sound of a
quick, panting breath!

Gypsy sat upright in bed, and listened.

It grew louder, and came nearer; quick, and hoarse, and horrible--like the
breathing of a hungry animal.

Sarah slept like a baby; there was not a movement from Tom and Mr. Hallam
in the other tent; everything was still but that terrible sound. Gypsy had
good nerves and was not easily frightened, but it must be confessed she
thought of those traditionary bears which had been seen at Ripton. She had
but a moment in which to decide what to do, for the creature was now
sniffing at the tent-door, and once she was sure she saw a dark paw lift
the sail-cloth. She might wake Sarah, but what was the use? She would only
scream, and that would do no good, and might do much harm. If it were a
bear, and they kept still, he might go away and leave them. Yet, if it
were a bear, Tom must know it in some way.

All these thoughts passed through Gypsy's mind in that one instant, while
she sat listening to the panting of the brute without.

Then she rose quickly and went on tiptoe to the tent-door. Her hand
trembled a little as she touched the canvas gently--so gently that it
scarcely stirred. She held her breath, she put her eye to the partition,
she looked out and saw----

Mr. Fisher's little black dog!

Tom was awakened by a long, merry laugh that rang out like a bell on the
still night air, and echoed through the forest. He thought Gypsy must be
having another fit of somnambulism, and Sarah jumped up, with a scream,
and asked if it wasn't an Indian.

The night passed without further adventure, and the morning sun woke the
girls by peering in at a hole in the tent-roof, and making a little round
golden fleck, that danced across their eyelids until they opened.

They were scarcely dressed, when Tom's voice, with a spice of mischief in
it, called Gypsy from outside. The girls hurried out, and there he sat
with Mr. Hallam, before a crackling fire over which some large fresh trout
were frying in Indian meal.

"Oh, why didn't you let us go, too?" said Gypsy.

"We took the time while you were asleep, on purpose," said Tom, in his
provoking fashion. "Nobody can do any fishing while girls are round."

"Tom doesn't deserve any for that speech," said Mr. Hallam, smiling; "and
I shall have to tell of him. It happens that I caught the fish while a
certain young gentleman was dreaming."

"O--oh, Tom! Well; but, Mr. Hallam, can't we go fishing to-day?"

"To be sure, you can."

"How long do you suppose you'll stand it?--girls always give out in half
an hour."

"I'll stand it as long as you will, sir!"

Tom whistled.

The trout were done to that indescribable luscious point of brown
crispness, and the breakfast was, if possible, better than the supper.

After breakfast, they started on a fishing excursion down the gorge. It
was a perfect day. It seemed to the girls that no winds from the valley
were ever so sweet and pure as those winds, and no lowland sunshine so
golden. The brook foamed and bubbled down its steep, rocky bed, splashed
up jets of rainbow spray into the air, and plunged in miniature cascades
over tiny gullies; the wet stones flashed in the light upon the banks, and
tall daisies, peering over, painted shifting white outlines of themselves
in the swelling current and the shallow pools; here and there, too, where
the water was deep, the fish darted to the surface, and darted out of
sight.

"Isn't it _beau_--tiful!" cried Sarah.

"Pretty enough," said Gypsy, affecting carelessness, and trying to unwind
her line in as _au fait_ and boyish a manner as possible.

"You girls keep this pool. Mr. Hallam and I are going a little ways up
stream," said Tom. "Now don't speak a word, and be sure you don't scream
if you catch a fish by any chance between you, and frighten them all
away."

"As if I didn't know that! Here, Sarah, hold your rod lower," said Gypsy,
assuming a professional air. Mr. Hallam and Tom walked away, and the girls
fished for just half an hour in silence. That is to say, they sat on the
bank, and held a rod. Sarah had had one faint nibble, but that was all
that had happened, and the sun began to be very warm.

"I'm going out on those stones," said Gypsy. "I believe I see a fish out
there."

So she stepped out carefully on the loose stones, which tilted ominously
under her weight.

"Oh, you'll fall!" said Sarah.

"Hush--sh! I see one."

Up went the rod in the air with a jerk, over went the stone, and down went
Gypsy. She disappeared from sight a moment in the shallow water; then
splashed up with a gasp, and stood, dripping.

"Oh, dear me!" said Sarah.

Tom came up, undecided whether to laugh or scold.

"Well, Gypsy Breynton, you've done it now! Now I suppose you must go
directly home, and you'll catch cold before you can get there. This is a
pretty fix!"

"N--no," gasped Gypsy, rubbing the water out of her eyes; "I have dry
clothes up in the tent. Mother said I should want them. I guess I'll go
right up. I'm--rather--wet, I believe."

Tom looked at his watch, as Gypsy toiled dripping up the bank. The
temptation was too great to be resisted, and he called out,--

"Precisely half an hour! Gypsy, my dear, I'd stay all long, as the boys
do, by all means!" It was a very good thing about Gypsy, that she was
quite able to relish a joke at her own expense. She laughed as merrily as
Tom did, and the morning's adventure made quite as much fun as they would
have gained from a string of perfectly respectable fishes, properly and
scientifically caught, with dry feet and a warm seat on the bank under a
glaring sun. Mr. Hallam and Tom brought up plenty for dinner; so no one
went hungry.

That afternoon, it chanced that the girls were left alone for about one
hour. Mr. Hallam had taken Tom some distance up the stream for a
comfortable little fish by themselves, and left the girls to prepare
supper, with strict injunctions not to go out of sight of the tents.

They were very well content with the arrangement for a while, but at last
Gypsy became tired of having nothing but the trees to look at, and
suggested a visit to the brook. She had seen some checker-berry leaves
growing in the gorge, and was seized with a fancy to have them for supper.
Sarah, as usual, made no objections, and they went.

"It's only just out of sight of the tent," said Gypsy, as they ran down
over the loose stones; "and we won't be gone but a minute."

But they were gone many minutes. They had little idea how long the time
had been, and were surprised to find it growing rapidly dark in the forest
when they came panting back to the tent, out of breath with the haste they
had made.

"They must be back by this time," said Gypsy; "Tom!"

There was no answer.

"Tom! Thom-as! Mr. Hallam!"

A bird chirped in a maple-bough overhead, and a spark cracked out of the
smouldering hickory fire; there was no other sound.

"I guess they're busy in their tent," said Gypsy, going up to it. But the
tent was empty.

"They haven't come!" exclaimed Sarah.

"It's real mean in them to leave us here," said Gypsy, looking round among
the trees.

"You know," suggested Sarah, timidly, "you know Mr. Hallam said we were to
stay at the tents. Perhaps they came while we were gone, and couldn't find
us, and have gone to hunt us up."

"Oh!" said Gypsy, quickly, "I forgot." She turned away her face a moment,
so that Sarah could not see it; then she turned back, and said, slowly,--

"Sarah, I'm very sorry I took you off. This is rather a bad fix. We must
make the best of it now."

"Let's call again," said Sarah, faintly.

They called again, and many times; but there was no reply. Everything was
still but the bird, and the sparks that crackled now and then from the
fire. The heavy gray shadows grew purple and grew black. The little
foot-paths in the woods were blotted out of sight, and the far sky above
the tree-tops grew dusky and dim.

"We might go to Mr. Fisher's,--do, Gypsy! I can't bear to stay here," said
Sarah, looking around.

"No," said Gypsy, decidedly. "We can't go to Mr. Fisher's, because that
would mislead them all the more. We must stay here now till they come."

"I'm afraid!" said Sarah, clinging to her arm; "it is so dark. Perhaps
we'll have to stay here alone all night,--oh, Gypsy!"

"Nonsense!" said Gypsy, looking as bold as possible; "it wouldn't be so
dreadful if we did. Besides, of course, we sha'n't; they'll be back here
before long. You go in the tent, if you feel any safer there, and I'll
make up a bright fire. If they see it, they'll know we've come."

Sarah went into the tent, and covered her head up in the bed-clothes; but
in about ten minutes she came back, feeling a little ashamed of her
timidity, and sat down by Gypsy before the fire. It was a strange
picture--the ghostly white tents and tangled brushwood gilded with the
light; the great forest stretching away darkly beyond; the fitful shadows
and glares from the flickering fire that chased each other in strange,
uncouth shapes, among the leaves, and the two children sitting there alone
with frightened, watching eyes.

"I'm not a bit afraid," said Gypsy, after a silence, in a tone as if she
were rather arguing with herself than with Sarah. "I think it's rather
nice. Tom left his gun all loaded, and we can defend ourselves against
anything. I'm going to get it, and we'll play we're Union refugees hiding
in the South."

So she went into Tom's tent, and brought out his gun.

"Look out!" said Sarah, shrinking, "it may go off."

"Go off? Of course it can't, unless I pull the trigger. I know how to
manage a gun,--hark! what's that?"

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Sarah, beginning to cry. "I know it's a bear."

"Hush! Let's listen."

They listened. A curious, irregular tramping round broke the stillness.

Gypsy stood up quickly, and put the gun into position upon her shoulder.

"It isn't Tom and Mr. Hallam,--then there would be two. This is only one,
and it doesn't sound like a man, I declare."

"Oh, it's a bear, it's a bear! We shall be eaten up alive,--oh, Gypsy,
Gypsy!"

"Keep still! I can shoot him if it is; but I know it isn't; just wait and
see."

The curious sound came nearer; tramped through the underbrush; crushed the
dead twigs. Gypsy's finger was on the trigger; her face a little pale. She
thought the idea of the bear all nonsense; she did not know what she
feared; the very mystery of the thing had thoroughly frightened her.

"Keep still, Sarah; you hit me. I don't want to fire till I see."

"Oh, it's coming, it's coming!" cried Sarah, starting back with a scream.
She clung, in her terror, to Gypsy's arm; jerked it; the trigger snapped,
and a loud explosion echoed and re-echoed and reverberated among the
trees.

It was followed by a sound the most horrible Gypsy had heard in all her
life.

It was a human cry. _It was Tom's voice._

CHAPTER X

THE END OF THE WEEK

Gypsy threw down the gun, and threw up her hands with a curious quick
motion, like one in suffocation, who was trying to find a voice; but she
did not utter a sound.

There was an instant's awful stillness. In that instant, it seemed to
Gypsy as if she had lived a great many years; in that instant, even
Sarah's frightened cries were frozen.

Then the bushes parted, and some one sprang through. Gypsy knew the face
all blackened and marred with powder--the face dearer to her than any on
earth but her mother's. So she had not killed him--thank God, thank God!

"Gypsy, child!" called the dear, familiar voice; "what ails you? You
haven't hurt me, but why in the name of all danger on this earth did you
touch----"

But Tom stopped short; for Gypsy tottered up to him with such a white,
weak look on her face, that he thought the rebound of the gun must have
injured her, and caught her in his arms.

"You're not going to faint! Where are you hurt?"

But Gypsy was not hurt, and Gypsy never fainted. She just put her arms
about his neck and hid her face close upon his shoulder, and cried as if
her heart would break.

It was a long time before she spoke,--only kissing him and clinging to him
through her sobs,--then, at last,--

"Oh, Tom, I thought I had killed you--I thought--and I loved you so--oh,
Tom!"

Tom choked a little, and sat down on the ground, holding her in his lap.

"Why, my little Gypsy!"

Just then footsteps came crashing through the underbrush, and Mr. Hallam
ran hurriedly up.

"Oh, you've found them! Where were they? What has happened to Gypsy?"

"Let me go," sobbed Gypsy; "I can't talk just now. I want to go away and
cry."

She broke away from Tom's arms, and into the tent, where she could be
alone.

"What has happened?" repeated Mr. Hallam. "We came home in less than an
hour, and couldn't find you. We have been to Mr. Fisher's, and hunted
everywhere. I was calling for you in the gorge when Tom found you."

Sarah was left to tell their story; which she did with remarkable
justness, considering how frightened she was. She shared with Gypsy the
blame of having left the tents, and insisted that it was her fault that
the gun went off. Before the account was quite finished, Gypsy called Tom
from the tent-door, and he went to her.

She was quiet, and very pale,

"Oh, Tom, I am so sorry! I didn't think I should be gone so long."

"It was very dangerous, Gypsy. You might have been lost, or you might have
had to spend the night here alone, while we were hunting for you."

"I know it, I know it; and Sarah was so frightened, and I was too, a
little, and Sarah thought you were a bear."

"I have told you a great many times that it is _never_ safe for you to
touch my gun," said Tom, gravely. He felt that Gypsy's carelessness might
have brought about too terrible consequences, both to herself and to him,
to be passed by lightly; and he had an idea that, as long as her mother
was not there to tell her so, he must.

But Gypsy dropped her head, and looked so humble and wretched, that he had
not the heart to say any more.

Gypsy was sure all the pleasure of her camping-out was utterly spoiled;
but there was a bright sun the next morning, and Tom was so kind and
pleasant, and the birds were singing, and the world didn't look at all as
if she had nearly killed her brother twelve hours before, so she found she
was laughing in spite of herself, and two very happy days passed after
that. Mr. Hallam made a rule that he or Tom should keep the girls
constantly in sight, and that, during the time spent in excursions which
they could not join, they should remain in Mr. Fisher's house. He said it
was too wild a place for them to be alone in for any length of time, and
he was sorry he left them before.

Gypsy did not resent this strict tutelage. She was very humble and
obedient and careful as long as they stayed upon the mountain. Those few
moments, when she clung sobbing to Tom's neck, were a lesson to her. She
will not forget them as long as she lives.

At the end of the fourth day, just at supper time, a dark cloud sailed
over the sky, and a faint wind blew from the east.

"I wonder if it's going to rain," said Mr. Hallam. They all looked up.
Gypsy said nothing; in her secret heart, she hoped it would.

"What about sending the girls to Mrs. Fisher's?" asked Tom, when they were
washing the dishes.

"Oh, no, no, it won't rain, I know--let us stay, Mr. Hallam, please. Why,
I should feel like a deserter if I went off!" pleaded Gypsy.

The dark cloud seemed to have passed away, and the wind was still. After
thinking a while, Mr. Hallam decided to let them stay.

In the middle of the night, Gypsy was awakened by a great noise. The wind
was blowing a miniature hurricane through the trees, and the rain was
falling in torrents. She could hear it spatter on the canvas roof, and
drop from the poles, and gurgle in a stream through the ditch. She could
hear, too, the loud, angry murmur of the trout brook and the splashing of
hundreds of rivulets that dashed down the slope and over the gorge into
it.

She gave Sarah a little pinch, and woke her up.

"Oh, Sarah, it's come! It's raining like everything, and here we are, and
we can't get to Mr. Fisher's--isn't it splendid?"

"Ye-es," said Sarah; "it's very splendid, only isn't it a little--wet?
It's dropping right on my cheek."

"Oh, that's nothing--why, here I can put my hand right down into a puddle
of water. It's just like being at sea."

"I know it. Are people at sea always so--cold?"

"Why, I'm not cold. Only we might as well wear our water-proofs. The
leaves _are_ a little damp."

So they put on their tweed cloaks, and Gypsy listened to the wind, and
thought it was very poetic and romantic, and that she was perfectly happy.
And just as she had lain down again there came a great gust of rain, and
one of the rivulets that were sweeping down the mountain splashed in under
the canvas, and ran right through the middle of the tent like a brook.
Sarah jumped up with energy.

"O--oh, it's gone right over my feet!"

"My shoes are sailing away, as true as you live!" cried Gypsy, and sprang
just in time to save them.

The dinner-basket and a tin pail were fast following, when Tom appeared
upon the scene, and called through the wall of shawls,--

"Girls, you'll have to go to Mrs. Fisher's. Be quick as you can!"

"I don't want to a bit," said Gypsy, who was sitting in a pool of water.

"Well, I'm going," announced Sarah, with unheard-of decision. "Camping out
is very nice, but drowning is another thing."

"Well--I--suppose it _would_ be a--little--dryer," said Gypsy, slowly.

The girls were soon dressed, and Tom lighted a lantern and went with them.
A few peals of thunder growled sullenly down the valley, and one bright
flash of lightning glared far through the forest. Sarah was afraid she
should be struck. Gypsy was thinking how grand it was, and wished she
could be out in a midnight storm every week.

It was after midnight, and every one at Mr. Fisher's was asleep; but Tom
knocked them up, and Mr. Fisher was very much amused, and Mrs. Fisher was
very kind and hospitable, and built up a fire, and said they should be
perfectly dry and warm before they went to bed.

So the girls bade Tom good-night, and he went back to Mr. Hallam, and
they, feeling very cold and sleepy and drenched, were glad enough to be
taken care of, and put to bed like babies, after Mrs. Fisher's good,
motherly fashion.

"Sarah," said Gypsy, sleepily, just as Sarah was beginning to dream. "A
feather-bed, and--and _pil_lows! (with a little jump to keep awake long
enough to finish her sentence) are a little better--on the whole--than a
mud--pud----"

Just there she went to sleep. The next day it poured from morning till
night. That was just what Mr. Hallam and Tom liked, so they fished all
day, and the girls amused themselves as best they might in Mr. Fisher's
barn. The day after it rained in snatches, and the sun shone in little
spasms between. A council of exigencies met in Mr. Hallam's tent, and it
was unanimously decided to go home. Even Gypsy began to long for civilized
life, though she declared that she had never in all her life had such a
good time as she had had that week.

So Mr. Fisher harnessed and drove them briskly down the mountain, and
"from afar off" Gypsy saw her mother's face, watching for her at the
door--a little anxious; very glad to see her back.

CHAPTER XI

GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON

Just at the end of the vacation, it was suddenly announced that Miss
Melville was not going to teach any more.

"How funny!" said Gypsy. "Last term she expected to, just as much as
anything. I don't see what's the reason. Now I shall have to go to the
high school."

It chanced that they were remodelling some of the rooms at the high
school, and the winter term, which would otherwise have commenced in
September, was delayed till the first of October.

Gypsy had jumped on all the hay-cocks, and picked all the huckleberries,
and eaten all the early Davises, and gone on all the picnics that she
could, and was just ready to settle down contentedly to school and study;
so the news from Miss Melville was not, on the whole, very agreeable. What
to do with herself, for another long month of vacation, was more than she
knew.

She wandered about the house and sat out among the clovers and swung on
the gate, in a vague, indefinite sort of way, for two weeks; then one
morning Mrs. Breynton read her a letter which set her eyes on fire with
delight. It was an invitation from her aunt to spend a fortnight in
Boston. It so happened that Gypsy had never been to Boston. It was a long
day's journey from Yorkbury, and Mr. Breynton was not much in favor of
expensive travelling for the children while they were very young; arguing
that the enjoyment and usefulness would be doubled to them when they were
older. Besides, Gypsy's uncle, though he was her father's brother, had
seldom visited Yorkbury. His business kept him closely at home, and his
wife and daughter always went to the seaside in summer; so the two
families had seen very little of each other for years.

Mrs. Breynton, however, thought it best Gypsy should make this visit; and
Gypsy, who had lived twelve years in a State which contained but one city,
considered going to Boston very much as she would have considered going to
Paradise.

It took a few days of delightful hurry and bustle to get ready. There was
much washing and mending and altering, sewing on of trimmings and letting
down of tucks, to be done for her; for Mrs. Breynton desired to spare her
the discomfort of feeling "countrified," and Yorkbury style was not
distinctively _a la Paris_. She told Gypsy, frankly, that she must expect
to find her cousin Joy better dressed than herself; but that her wardrobe
should be neat and tasteful, and in as much accordance with the prevailing
mode as was practicable; so she hoped she would have too much self-respect
to be troubled by the difference.

"I hope I have," said Gypsy, with an emphasis.

The days passed so quickly that it seemed like a dream when she had at
last bidden them all good-by, kissed her mother just ten times, and was
fairly seated alone in the cars, holding on very tightly to her ticket,
and wondering if the men put her trunk in. Although she was so little used
to travelling, having never been farther than to Burlington or Vergennes
in her life, yet she was not in the least afraid to take the journey
alone. Her mother felt sure she could take care of herself, and her father
had given her so many directions, and written such careful memoranda for
her, of changes of cars, refreshment stations, what to do with her check,
and how to look after her baggage, that she felt sure she could not make a
mistake. Being a bright, observing child, fearless as a boy, and not in
the least inclined to worry, she had no trouble at all. The conductor was
very kind; an old gentleman, who was pleased with her twinkling eyes and
red cheeks, gave her an orange, and helped look after her baggage; two old
ladies gave her fennel and peppermints; and before she reached Boston she
was on terms of intimacy with six babies, a lapdog, and a canary-bird.
Altogether, it had been a most charming journey, and she was almost sorry
when they reached the city, and the train rolled slowly into the dark
depot.

The passengers were crowding rapidly out, the lamps were lighted in the
car, and she felt a little lonely sitting still there, and waiting for her
uncle. She had not waited but a moment, however, when a pleasant,
whiskered face appeared at the car-door, and one of those genial,
"off-hand" voices, that sound at once so kindly and so careless, called
out,--

"O--ho! So here's the girl! Glad to see you, child. This way; the hack's
all ready."

She was hurried into a carriage, her trunk was tossed on behind, and then
the door was shut, and they were driven rapidly away through a maze of
crooked streets, glare of gaslights, and brilliant shop-windows, that
bewildered Gypsy. She had a notion that was the way fairy-land must look.
Her uncle laughed, good-naturedly, at her wide-open eyes.

"Boston is a somewhat bigger village than Yorkbury, I suppose! How's your
father? Why didn't he come with you? Is your mother well? And that
boy--Linnie--Silly--what do call him?"

"Winnie, sir; and then there's Tom."

"Winnie--oh, yes! Tom well, too?"

Before the ride was over, Gypsy had come to the conclusion that she liked
her uncle very much, only he had such a funny way of asking questions, and
then forgetting all about them.

The driver reined up at a house on Beacon Street, and Gypsy was led up a
long flight of steps through a bright hall, and into a room that dazzled
her. A bright coal-fire was glowing in the grate, for it was a chilly
evening, and bright jets of gas were burning in chandeliers. Bright
carpets, and curtains, furniture, pictures, and ornaments covered the
length of two parlors separated only by folding-doors, and mirrors, that
reached from the floor to the ceiling, reflected her figure full length,
as she stood in the midst of the magnificence, in her Yorkbury hat and
homemade casaque.

"Sit down, sit down," said her uncle; "I'll call your aunt. I don't see
where they are; I told them to be on hand,--Kate, where's Mrs. Breynton?"

"She's up-stairs, sir, dressing," said the servant, who had opened the
door.

"Tell her Miss Gypsy has come; sit down, child, and make yourself at
home."

Gypsy sat down, and Mr. Breynton, not satisfied with sending a message to
his wife, went to the foot of the stairs, and called,--

"Miranda!--Joy!"

A voice from somewhere above answered, a little sharply, that she was
coming as fast as she could, and she told Joyce to go down long ago, but
she hadn't stirred.

Gypsy heard every word, and she began to wonder if her aunt were very glad
to see her, and what sort of a girl her cousin must be, if she didn't obey
her mother unless she chose to. Just then Joy came down stairs, walking
very slowly and properly, and came into the parlor with the manners of a
young lady of eighteen. She might have been a pretty child, if she had
been dressed more plainly and becomingly; but her face was pale and thin,
and there was a fretful look about her mouth, that almost spoiled it.

Gypsy went up warmly, and kissed her. Joy had extended the tips of her
fingers to shake hands, and she looked a little surprised, but kissed her
politely, and asked if she were tired with the journey. Just then Mrs.
Breynton came in, with many apologies for her delay, met Gypsy kindly
enough, and sent her up-stairs to take off her things.

"Who trimmed your hat?" asked Joy, suddenly.

"Miss Jones. She's our milliner."

"Oh," said Joy, "mine is a pheasant. Nobody thinks of wearing velvet
now--most everybody has a pheasant."

"I shouldn't like to wear just what everybody else did," Gypsy could not
help saying. She hung the turban up in the closet, with a little
uncomfortable feeling. It was a fine drab straw, trimmed and bound with
velvet a shade darker. It was pretty, and she knew it; it just matched her
casaque, and her mother had thought it all the more lady-like for its
simplicity. Nevertheless, it was not going to be very pleasant to have her
cousin Joy ashamed of her.

"Oh, oh, how short they wear dresses in Yorkbury!" remarked Joy, as Gypsy
walked across the room. "Mine are nearly to the tops of my boots, now I'm
thirteen years old."

"Are they?--where did I put my bag?" said Gypsy, carelessly. Joy looked a
little piqued that she did not seem more impressed.

"There's dinner," she said, after a silence, in which she had been
secretly inspecting and commenting upon every article of Gypsy's attire.
"Come, let's go down. Mother scolds if we're late."

"Scolds!" said Gypsy. "How funny! my mother never scolds."

"Doesn't she?" asked Joy, a little wonder in her eyes.

"It seems so queer to have dinner at six o'clock," said Gypsy,
confidentially, as they went down stairs. "At home they are just sitting
down to supper."

Joy laughed patronizingly.

"Oh, yes; I suppose you're used to country hours."

For the second time, Gypsy felt uncomfortable. She would very much have
liked to ask her cousin what there was to be ashamed of in being used to
country hours, when you lived in the country. But they had reached the
dining-room door, and her aunt was calling out somewhat fretfully to Joy
to hurry, so she said nothing.

After supper, her uncle said she looked very much like her father, hoped
she would make herself at home, thought her a little taller than Joyce,
and then was lost to view, for the evening, behind his newspaper. Her aunt
inquired if she could play on the piano, was surprised to find she knew
nothing more classical than chants and Scotch airs; told Joy to let her
hear that last air of Von Weber's; and then she took up a novel which was
lying partially read upon the table. When Joy was through playing, she
proposed a game of solitaire. Gypsy would much rather have examined the
beautiful and costly ornaments with which the rooms were filled, but she
was a little too polite and a little too proud to do so, unasked.

"What do you play most?" she asked, as they began to move the figures on
the solitaire board.

"Oh," said Joy, "I practise three hours, and that takes all the time when
I'm in school. In vacations, I don't know,--I like to walk in Commonwealth
Avenue pretty well; then mother has a good deal of company, and I always
come down."

"Only go to walk, and sit still in the parlor!" exclaimed Gypsy; "dear
me!"

"Why, what do you do?"

"Me? Oh, I jump on the hay and run down hills and poke about in the
swamp."

_"What?"_

"Push myself round on a raft in the orchard-swamp; it's real fun."

"Why, I never heard of such a thing!" said Joy, looking shocked.

"Well, it's splendid; you ought to come up to Yorkbury, and go out with
me. Tom would make you a raft."

"What _do_ the people say?" said Joy, looking at her mother.

"Oh, there aren't any people there to see. If there were, they wouldn't
say anything. I have just the nicest times. Winnie and I tipped over last
spring,--clear over, splash!"

"You will ruin your complexion," remarked her aunt, laying down her novel.
"I suppose you never wear a veil."

"A veil? Dear me, no! I can't bear the feeling of a veil. I wore one in
the cars through, to keep the cinders off. Then, besides that, I row and
coast, and,--oh, I forgot, walking on the fences; it's real fun if you
don't tumble off."

_"Walking on the fences!"_

"Oh, yes. I always go in the fields where there's nobody round. Then I
like to climb the old walls, where you have to jump when the stones roll
off from under you."

Mrs. Breynton elevated her eyebrows with a peculiar expression, and
returned to her novel.

Gypsy was one of those happy people who are gifted with the faculty of
always having a pleasant time, and the solitaire game was good enough, if
it hadn't been so quiet; but when she went up to bed, she looked somewhat
sober. She bade Joy good-night, shut herself into the handsomely-furnished
room which had been given her, sat down on the floor, and winked hard
several times. She would not have objected at that moment to seeing her
mother, or Tom, or pulling her father's whiskers, or squeezing Winnie a
little, or looking into the dear, familiar sitting-room where they were
all gathered just then to have prayers. She began to have a vague idea
that there was no place like home. She also came to the conclusion, very
faintly, and feeling like a traitor all the time, that her Aunt Miranda
was very fashionable and very fretful, and did not treat Joy at all as her
mother treated her; that Joy thought her countrified, and had never walked
on a fence in all her life; that her uncle was very good, but very busy,
and that a fortnight was a rather long time to stay there.

However, her uncle's house was not the whole of Boston. All the delights
of the great, wonderful city remained unexplored, and who could tell what
undreamed-of joys to-morrow would bring forth?

So Gypsy's smiles came back after their usual punctual fashion, and she
fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, to dream that she was
sitting in Tom's lap, reading an Arabic novel aloud to Winnie.

It might have been about half an hour after, that she woke suddenly with a
terrible feeling in her lungs and throat, and sat up in bed gasping, to
see the door burst open, and her aunt come rushing in.

"Is the house on fire?" asked Gypsy, sleepily.

"House on fire! It might have been. It's a wonder you're alive!"

"Alive," repeated Gypsy, bewildered.

"Why, child, you blew out the gas!" said her aunt, sharply, throwing open
the windows. "Didn't you know any better than that?"

"I'm so used to blowing out our lamps," said Gypsy, feeling very much
frightened and ashamed.

"Country ways!" exclaimed her aunt. "Well, thank fortune, there's no harm
done,--go to sleep, like a good girl."

Gypsy did not relish being told to go to sleep like a good girl, when she
had done nothing wrong; nor did her aunt's one chilly kiss, at leaving
her, serve to make her forget those few sharp words.

The next morning, after breakfast, Joy proposed to go out to walk, and
Gypsy ran up to put on her things in great glee. One little circumstance
dashed damply on it, like water on glowing coals.

"How large your casaque is about the neck," said Joy, carelessly. "I like
mine small and high, with a binding."

Gypsy remembered what her mother said: and, because her casaque happened
to be cut after Miss Jones's patterns instead of Madame Demorest's, she
did not feel that her character was seriously affected; but it was not
pleasant to have such things said. Her cousin did not mean to be unkind.
On the contrary, she had taken rather a fancy to Gypsy. She was simply a
little thoughtless and a little vain. Joy is not the only girl in Boston,
I am afraid, who has hurt the feelings of her country visitors in that
careless way.

"You've never seen the Common, I suppose, nor the Public Gardens?" said
Joy, as they started off. "We'll walk across to Boylston Street,--dear me!
you haven't any gloves on!"

"Oh, must I put them on?" said Gypsy, with a sigh; "I'm afraid I sha'n't
like Boston if I have to wear gloves week-days. I can't bear the feeling
of them."

"I suppose that's what makes your hands so red and brown," replied Joy,
astonished, casting a glance at her own sickly, white fingers, which she
was pinching into a pair of very tight kid gloves.

"Here are the Gardens," she said, proudly, as they entered the inclosure.
"Aren't they beautiful? I don't suppose you have anything like this in
Yorkbury. We'll go up to the Common in a minute."

Gypsy looked carelessly around, and did not seem to be very much impressed
or interested.

"I'd rather go over into that street where the people and the carriages
are," she said.

"Why!" exclaimed Joy; "don't you like it? See the fountains, and the deer
and the grass, and all."

"I like the deer," said Gypsy; "only I feel so sorry for them."

"Sorry for them!"

"Why, they look so as if they wanted to be off in the woods with nobody
round. I like the rabbits better, jumping round at home under the
pine-trees. Then I think the trout-brook, at Ripton, is a great deal
prettier than these fountains. But then I guess I should like the stores,"
she said, apologetically, a little afraid she had hurt or provoked Joy.

"I never saw anybody like you," said Joy, looking puzzled. When they came
to Tremont, and then to Washington Street, Gypsy was in an ecstasy. She
kept calling to Joy to see that poor little beggar girl, or that funny old
woman, or that negro boy who was trying to stand on his head, or the
handsome feather on that lady's bonnet, and stopped every other minute to
see some beautiful toy or picture in a shop-window, till Joy lost all
patience.

"Gypsy Breynton! don't keep staring in the windows so; people will think
we are a couple of servant girls just from down East, who never saw
Washington Street before!"

"I never did," said Gypsy, coolly.

But she looked a little sober. What was the use of Boston, and all its
beautiful sights and busy sounds, if you must walk right along as if you
were going to church, and not seem to see nor hear any of the wonders, for
fear of being called countrified? Gypsy began to hate the word.

"You must take your cousin to the Aquarial Gardens," said Mr. Breynton to
Joy, at dinner.

"Oh, I'm tired to death of the Aquarial Gardens," answered Joy; "none of
the girls I go with ever go now, and I've seen it all so many times."

"But Gypsy hasn't. Try the Museum, then."

"I can't bear the Museum. The white snakes in bottles make me so nervous,"
said Joy.

"A white snake in a bottle! Why, I never saw one," said Gypsy, with
sparkling eyes.

"Well, I'll go with you, child, if Joy hasn't the politeness to do it,"
said her uncle, patting her eager face.

"Mr. Breynton," said his wife, petulantly, "you are _always_ blaming that
child for something."

Yet, in the very next breath, she scolded Joy, for delaying her practising
ten minutes, more severely than her father would have done if she had told
a falsehood.

Mr. Breynton was very busy the next day, and forgot all about Gypsy; but
the day after he left his store at an early hour, and took her to the
Museum, and out to Bunker Hill. That was the happiest day Gypsy spent in
Boston.

The day after her aunt had a large dinner company. No one would have
imagined that Gypsy dreaded it in the least; but, in her secret heart, she
did. Joy seemed to be perfectly happy when she was dressed in her
brilliant Stuart plaid silk, with its long sash and valenciennes lace
ruffles, and spent a full half hour exhibiting her jewelry-box to Gypsy's
wondering eyes, and trying to decide whether she would wear her coral
brooch and ear-rings, which matched the scarlet of the plaid, or a
handsome malachite set, which were the newer.

Gypsy looked on admiringly, for she liked pretty things as well as other
girls; but dressed herself in the simple blue-and-white checked foulard,
with blue ribbons around her net and at her throat to match,--the best
suit, over which her mother had taken so much pains, and which had seemed
so grand in Yorkbury,--hoped her aunt's guests would not laugh at her, and
decided to think no more about the matter.

The first half hour of dinner passed off pleasantly enough. Gypsy was
hungry; for she had just come home from a long walk to Williams &
Everett's picture gallery, and the dinner was very nice; the only trouble
with it being that, there were so many courses, she could not decide what
to eat and what to refuse. But after a while a deaf old gentleman, who sat
next her, felt conscientiously impelled to ask her where she lived and how
old she was, and she had to scream so loud to answer him, that it
attracted the attention of all the guests. Then the dessert came and the
wine, and an hour and a half had passed, and still no one showed any signs
of leaving the table, and the old gentleman made spasmodic attempts at
conversation, at intervals of ten minutes. The hour and a half became two
hours, and Gypsy was so thoroughly tired out sitting still, it seemed as
if she should scream, or upset her finger-bowl, or knock over her chair,
or do some terrible thing.

"You said you were twelve years old, I believe?" said the old gentleman,
suddenly. This was the fifth time he had asked that very same question.
Joy trod on Gypsy's toes under the table, and Gypsy laughed, coughed,
seized her goblet, and began to drink violently to conceal her rudeness.

"Twelve years? and you live in Vermont?" remarked the old gentleman
placidly. This was a drop too much. Gypsy swallowed her water the wrong
way, strangled and choked, and ran out of the room with crimson face,
mortified and gasping.

She knew, by a little flash of her aunt's eyes, that she was ashamed of
her, and much displeased. She locked herself into her own room, feeling
very miserable, and would not have gone down stairs again if she had not
been sent for, after the company had returned to the parlors.

She did not dare to disobey, so she went, and sat down in a corner by the
piano, where she hoped she should be out of sight.

A pleasant-faced lady, sitting near, turned, and said,--

"Don't you play, my dear?"

"A little," said Gypsy, wishing she could have truthfully said no.

"I wish you would play for me," said the lady.

"Oh, I shouldn't like to," said Gypsy, shrinking; "I don't know anything
but Scotch airs."

"That is just what I like," said the lady. "Mrs. Breynton, can't you
persuade your niece to play a little for me?"

"Certainly, Gypsy," said her aunt, with a look which plainly said, "Don't
think of it."

Gypsy's mother had taught her that it was both disobliging and affected to
refuse to play when she was asked, no matter how simple her music might
be. So, not knowing how to refuse, and wishing the floor would open and
swallow her up, she went to the piano, and played two sweet Scotch airs.
She played them well for a girl of her age, and the lady thanked her, and
seemed to enjoy them. But that night, just as she was going to bed, she
accidentally overheard her aunt saying to Joy,--

"It was very stupid and forward in her. I tried to make her understand,
but I couldn't--those little songs, too! Why, with all your practice, and
such teachers as you have had, I wouldn't think of letting you play before
anybody at your age."

Gypsy cried herself to sleep that night.

Just a week from the day that she came to Boston, Gypsy and Joy were out
shopping in Summer Street. They had just come out of Hovey's, when they
met a ragged child, not more than three years old, crying as if its heart
were broken.

"Oh, dear!" cried Gypsy; "see that poor little girl! I'm going to see
what's the matter."

"Don't!" said Joy, horrified; "come along! Nobody stops to speak to
beggars in Boston; what _are_ you doing?"

For Gypsy had stopped and taken the child's two dirty little fists down
from her eyes, and looked down into the tear-stained and mud-stained face
to see what was the matter.

"I--I don't know where nobody is," sobbed the child.

"Have you lost your way? Where do you live?" asked Gypsy, with great,
pitying eyes. Gypsy could never bear to see anybody cry; and then the
little creature was so ragged and thin.

"I live there," said the child, pointing vaguely down the street.
"Mother's to home there somewhars."

"I'll go with you and find your mother," said Gypsy; and taking the
child's hand, she started off in her usual impulsive fashion, without a
thought beyond her pity.

"Gypsy! Gypsy Breynton!" called Joy. "The police will take her home--you
mustn't!"

But Gypsy did not hear, and Joy, shocked and indignant, went home and left
her.

In about an hour Gypsy came back, flushed and panting with her haste. Joy,
in speechless amazement, had looked from the window and seen her _running_
across the Common.

Her aunt met her on the stairs with a face like a thunder-cloud.

"Why, Gypsy Breynton, I am ashamed of you! How _could_ you do such a thing
as to go off with a beggar, and _take hold of her hand_ right there in
Summer Street, and go nobody knows where, alone, into those terrible Irish
streets! It was a _dreadful_ thing to do, and I should think you would
have known better, and I really think I must write to your mother about it
immediately!"

Gypsy stood for a moment, motionless with astonishment. Then, without
saying a word, she passed her aunt quickly on the stairs, and ran up to
her room. Her face was very white. If she had been at home she would have
broken forth in a torrent of angry words.

Kate, the house-maid, was sweeping the entry.

"Did you know there was going to be another great dinner to-day, miss?"
she said, as Gypsy passed her.

Gypsy went into her room, and locked her door. Another of those terrible
dinner-companies, and her aunt so angry at her! It was too much--she could
not bear it! She looked about the room twice, passed her hand over her
forehead, and her face flushed quickly.

One of Gypsy's sudden and often perilous resolutions was made.

CHAPTER XII

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

No one came to the room. After a while the front door opened and shut, and
she saw, from the window, that her aunt and Joy were going out. She then
remembered that she had heard them say they had some calls to make at that
hour. Her uncle was at the store, and no one was now in the house besides
herself, but the servants.

"All right," she said, half aloud; "I couldn't have fixed it better."

For half an hour she stayed in her room with the door locked, and any one
listening outside could have heard her moving briskly about, opening
drawers and shutting closet doors. Then she came down stairs and went out.
She was gone just about long enough to have been to the nearest hack-stand
and back again. A few minutes after she returned, the door-bell rang.

"I'll go," she called to Kate; "it's a man I sent here on an errand, and I
shall have to see him."

"Very well, miss," said Kate, and went singing down the back-stairs with
her broom.

"This way," said Gypsy, opening the door. She led the way to her room, and
the man who followed her shouldered her trunk with one hand, and carried
it out to a carriage which stood at the door. Gypsy went into her aunt's
room and left a little note on the table where it would be easily seen,
threw her veil over her face, felt of her purse to be sure it was safe in
her pocket, and ran hastily down stairs after him, and into the carriage.
The man strapped on her trunk, slammed the door upon her, and, mounting
his box, drove rapidly away. Kate, who happened to be looking out of one
of the basement windows, saw the carriage, but did not notice the trunk.
She supposed Gypsy was riding somewhere to meet her aunt or uncle, and
went on with her dusting.

The carriage stopped at the Fitchburg depot, and Gypsy paid her fare and
went into the ladies' room. The coachman, who seemed to be an
accommodating man, though a little curious, brought her a check, and hoped
she'd get along comfortable; it was a pretty long journey for such a young
creetur to take alone.

Gypsy thanked him, and going up to the ticket-master, asked him something
in a low tone.

"In just an hour!" said the ticket-master, in a loud, business-like voice.

"_An hour!_ So long as that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Gypsy drew her veil very closely about her face, and sat down in the
darkest corner she could find. She seemed to be very much afraid of being
recognized; for she shrank from every new-comer, and started every time
the door opened.

"Train for Fitchburg, Rutland, Burlington!" shouted a voice, at last, and
the words were drowned in the noise of hurrying feet.

Gypsy took a seat in the rear car, by the door, which was open, so that
she was partially concealed from the view of the passengers. Just before
the train started, a tall, whiskered gentleman walked slowly through the
car, scanning the faces on each side of him.

"You haven't seen a little girl here, dressed in drab, with black eyes and
red cheeks, have you?" he asked, stopping just in front of Gypsy.

Several of the passengers shook their heads, and one old lady piped out on
a very high key,--

"No, sir, I hain't!"

The gentleman passed out, and shut the door. Gypsy held her breath. It was
her uncle.

He looked troubled and anxious. Gypsy's cheeks flushed,--a sudden impulse
came over her to call him back,--she started and threw open the window,
but the engine-bell rang, the train puffed slowly off, and her uncle
disappeared in the crowd.

As she was whirled rapidly along through wharves and shipping and lumber,
away from the roar of the city, and out where woods and green fields lined
the way, she began, for the first time, to think what she was doing, and
to wonder if she were doing right. Her anger at her aunt, and the utter
disappointment and homesickness of her Boston visit, had swept away, for a
few moments, all her power of reasoning. To get home, to see her
mother,--to hide her head on her shoulder and cry,--this was the one
thought that had turned itself over and over in her mind, on that quick
ride from Beacon Street, and in that hour spent in the dark corner of the
depot. Here she was, running like a thief from her uncle's house, without
a word of good-by or thanks for his hospitality, with no message to tell
him where she had gone but that note, hastily written in the first flush
of her hurt and angry feelings. And the hurrying train was whirling her
over hill and valley faster and farther. To go back was impossible, go on
she must. What had she done?

She began now, too, to wonder where she should spend the night. The train
went only as far as Rutland, and it would be late and dark when she
reached the town--far too late for a little girl to be travelling alone,
and to spend a night in a strange hotel, in a strange place. What should
she do?

As the afternoon passed, and the twilight fell, and the lamps were
lighted, and people hurried out at way-stations to safe and waiting homes,
her loneliness and anxiety increased. Just before entering Rutland, a
young man, dressed in a dandyish manner, and partially intoxicated,
entered the car, and took the empty seat by Gypsy. She did not like his
looks, and moved away slightly, turning to look out of the window.

"No offense, I hope?" said the man, with a foolish smile; "the car was
full."

Gypsy made no reply.

"Travelling far?" he said, a moment after.

"To Rutland, sir," said Gypsy, feeling very uneasy, as she perceived the
odor of rum, and wishing he would not talk to her.

"Friends there?" said the man again.

"N--no, sir," said Gypsy, reluctantly. "I am going to the hotel."

"Stranger in town? What hotel do you go to?"

"I don't know," said Gypsy, hurriedly. The car was just stopping, and she
rose and tried to pass him.

"I will show you the way," he said, standing up, and reeling slightly as
he tried to walk. Gypsy, in despair, looked for the conductor. He was
nowhere to be seen. The crowd passed out, quite careless of the frightened
child, or regarding her only with a curious stare.

"It's only a little way," said the man, with an oath.

"Why, sakes a massy, if this ain't Gypsy Breynton!"

Gypsy turned, with a cry of joy, at hearing her name, and fairly sprang
into Mrs. Surly's arms.

"Why, where on airth did you come from, Gypsy Breynton?"

"I came from Boston, and that man is drunk, and,--oh, dear! I'm so glad to
see you, and I've got to go to a hotel, and I didn't know what mother
would say, and where did you come from?" said Gypsy, talking very fast.

"I come from my sister Lucindy's, down to Bellows Falls, and I'm going to
Cousin Mary Ann Jacobs to spend the night."

"Oh!" said Gypsy, wistfully.

"I don't see how a little gal like you ever come to be on a night train
alone," said Mrs. Surly, with a keen, curious look at Gypsy's face; "but I
know your ma'd never let you go to a hotel this time o' night, and Mary
Ann she'd be delighted to see you; so you'd better come along."

Gypsy was so happy and so thankful, she could fairly have kissed
her,--even her, Mrs. Surly. Cousin Mary Ann received her hospitably, and
the evening and the night passed quickly away. Mrs. Surly was very
curious, and somewhat suspicious on the subject of Gypsy's return to
Yorkbury, under such peculiar circumstances. Gypsy said that she left
Boston quite suddenly, that they were not expecting her at home, and that
she took so late a train for several reasons, but had not thought that it
went no further than Rutland, till she was fairly started; which was true.
More than this, Mrs. Surly could not cross-question out of her, and she
soon gave up trying.

Cousin Mary Ann wanted Mrs. Surly's company another day; so Gypsy took an
early train for Yorkbury alone.

Gypsy never took any trouble very deeply to heart, and the morning
sunlight, and the sight of the dear, familiar mountains, drove away, to a
great extent, the repentant and anxious thoughts of the night.

As the train shrieked into Yorkbury, she forgot everything but that she
was at home,--miles away from Boston, her mother near, and Tom, and the
dear old days of paddling about on rafts, and having no dinner-parties to
disgrace herself at, and no aunt to be afraid of.

It seemed as if every one she knew were at the station. Mr. Surly was
there, under strict orders from his wife, to watch for her every train
till she came; and Mr. Fisher was there, just down on an errand from the
mountains; and Mrs. Rowe and Sarah were walking up the street; and Agnes
Gaylord was over at the grocer's, nodding and smiling as Gypsy stepped
upon the platform; and there, too, was Mr. Simms, who had been somewhere
in the cars, and who stepped into the coach just after she did.

"Why, Miss Gypsy!--why, really! You home again, my dear? Why, your father
didn't expect you!"

"I know it," said Gypsy. "Are they all well?"

"Oh, yes, yes, all well,--but to give them such a surprise! It is so
exactly like you, my dear."

"I don't like Boston," said Gypsy, coloring. "I had a horrid time, and I
came home very suddenly."

"Don't like Boston? Well, you _are_ a remarkable young lady!" exclaimed
Mr. Simms, and relapsed into silence, watching Gypsy's flushed and eager
face, as people watch a light coming back into a dark room.

"We have missed you up at the store, my dear," he said, after a while.

"Have you? I'm glad. Oh! who's that with Miss Melville out walking under
the elm-trees?"

"I guess it's Mr. Hallam."

"Oh, to be sure," interrupted Gypsy, looking very bright. "I see,--Mr. Guy
Hallam. Now I guess I know why she wouldn't teach school!"

"They are to be married in the spring," said Mr. Simms.

"Just think!" said Gypsy. "How funny! Now she'll have to stay at home and
keep house all day,--I think she's real silly, don't you?"

Of all the many remarkable things that Miss Gypsy had ever said, Mr. Simms
thought this capped the climax.

Now the coach had rattled up the hill, and lumbered round the corner, and
there was the old house, looking quiet and pleasant and dear, in the
morning sunlight. Gypsy was so excited that she could not sit still, and
kept Mr. Simms in a fever of anxiety, for fear she would tumble out of the
coach windows. It seemed to her as if she had been gone a year, instead of
just one week.

She sprang down the carriage-steps at a bound, and ran into the house. Her
mother was out in the kitchen helping Patty about the dinner. She heard
such a singing and shouting as no one had made in the house since Gypsy
went away, and hurried out into the front entry to see what had happened.
Tom ran in from the garden, and Winnie slid down on the banisters, and Mr.
Breynton was just coming up the yard, and Patty put her head in at the
entry door, wiping her hands on her apron, and everybody must be kissed
all round, and for a few minutes there was such a bustle, that Gypsy could
hardly hear herself speak.

"What has brought you home so soon?" asked her mother, then. "We didn't
look for you for a week yet."

"Oh, I hate Boston!" cried Gypsy, pulling off her things. "I didn't like
anything but the Museum and Bunker Hill; and Joy wore silk dresses, and
wouldn't let me look in the shop-windows, 'n I took a poor, little
beggar-girl home, and you can't run round any, and Aunt Miranda told me
she'd tell you, and I hate it, and she's just as cross as a bear!"

"Your aunt cross!" said her mother, who could make neither beginning nor
end of Gypsy's excited story.

"I guess she is," said Gypsy, with an emphasis. "Oh, I _am_ so glad to get
home. Where's the kitty, and how's Peace Maythorne and everybody, and
Winnie has a new jacket, hasn't he?"

Mr. and Mrs. Breynton exchanged glances. They saw that something was
wrong; but wisely considered that that time was not the one for making any
inquiries into the matter. Mrs. Breynton thought, also, that if Gypsy had
been guilty of ill-temper or rudeness, she would confess it herself. She
was right; for as soon as dinner was over, Gypsy called her away alone,
and told her all the story. They were shut up together a long time, and
when Gypsy came out her eyes were red with crying.

All that Mrs. Breynton said does not matter here; but Gypsy is not likely
soon to forget it. A few words spoken, just as the conversation ended,
became golden mottoes that helped her over many rough places in her life.

"It is all the old trouble, Gypsy,--you 'didn't think.' A little
self-control, a moment's quiet thought, would have saved all this."

"Oh, I know it!" sobbed Gypsy. "That's what always ails me. I'm always
doing things, and always sorry for them. I mean to do right, and I cannot
remember. What shall I do with myself, mother?"

"Gypsy," said her mother, very soberly, "this will never do. You _can_
think. And Gypsy, my child, in every one of these little thoughtless words
and acts God sees a _sin_."

"A sin when you didn't think?" exclaimed Gypsy.

"You must learn to think, Gypsy; and He will teach you."

Her mother kissed her many times, and Gypsy clung to her neck, and was
very still. Whatever thoughts she had just then, she never told them to
any one.

The afternoon passed away like a merry dream. Gypsy was so happy that she
had had the talk with her mother; so glad to be kissed and forgiven and
loved and helped; to find every one so pleased to see her back, and home
so dear, and the mountains so blue and beautiful, and the sunlight so
bright, that she scarcely knew whether she were asleep or awake. She must
hunt up the kitten, and feed the chickens, and take a peep at the cow, and
stroke old Billy in his stall; she must see how many sweet peas were left
on the vines, and climb out on the shed-roof that had been freshly
shingled since she was gone, and run down to the Kleiner Berg, and over to
see Sarah Rowe. She must know just what Tom had been doing this
interminable week, just how many buttons Winnie had lost off from his
jacket, and what kind of pies Patty had baked for dinner. She must kiss
her mother twenty times an hour, and pull her father's whiskers, and ride
Winnie on her shoulder. Best of all, perhaps, it was to run down to Peace
Maythorne's, and find the sunlight golden in the quiet room, and the pale
face smiling on the pillow; to hear the gentle voice, when the door
opened, say, "Oh, Gypsy!" in such a way,--as no other voice ever said it;
and then to sit down and lay her head upon the pillow by Peace, and tell
her all that had happened.

"Well," said Peace, smiling, "I think you have learned a good deal for one
week, and I guess you will never _un_learn it."

"I guess you'll be very sorry you went to Bosting," remarked Winnie, in an
oracular manner, that night, when they were all together in their old
places in the sitting-room. "The Meddlesome Quinine Club had a concert
here last Wednesday, and we had preserved seats. What do you think of
that?"

This is a copy of the letter that found its way to Beacon Street a few
days after:--

"My dear Uncle and Aunt Miranda:

"I am so sorry I don't know what to do. I was so tired sitting still, and
going to dinner-parties, and then auntie was displeased about the
beggar-girl (I took her home, and her mother was just as glad as she could
be, and so poor!) and so I felt angry and homesick, and I know I oughtn't
to have gone to such a place without asking; but I didn't think; and then
I came home in the afternoon train, but I didn't think when I did that
either. Mother says that was no excuse, and I know it was very wicked in
me to do such a thing. Mrs. Surly met me in the cars at Rutland, and took
me to spend the night with her cousin, Mrs. Mary Ann Jacobs; so I got
along safely, and nothing happened to me, but one drunken man that kept
talking.

"Mother says I have done a _very_ rude and unkind thing, to leave you all
so, when you had invited me there, and been so good to me. I know it. I
had a real nice time when I went to see Bunker Hill and the Museum with
uncle; and, of course, it was my own fault that I didn't like to wear
gloves, and choked so at dinner.

"Mother says you will never want to see me there again; and I shouldn't
think you would. Seems to me I never did such a thing in all my life, and
you haven't any idea how badly I feel about it. But I know that doesn't
help it any.

"I've made up my mind never to do anything again till I've thought it all
over as many as twelve times. Mother says two or three would do, but I
think twelve would be safer.

"I wish you'd let Joy come up here. I'd take her boating and riding, and
up to Ripton, and down to the swamp, and everything, and try to make up.

"I don't suppose you will ever care anything more about me; but I wish
you'd please to excuse me and forgive me.

                                                "Your affectionate niece,
                                                "Gypsy.

"P. S.--Winnie's cat has the _cun_ningest little set of kittens you ever
saw. They're all blind, and they have such funny paws."

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.

2. Frontispiece relocated to after title page.

3. Typographic errors corrected in original:
   p. 48 an to on ("Winnie jumped on board")
   p. 58 mits to mitts ("pair of black mitts")
   p. 119 friend' to friend's ("in her friend's eyes")

End of Project Gutenberg's Gypsy Breynton, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps