GYPSY BREYNTON

ByELIZABETH STUART PHELPS

New YorkDodd, Mead and Company

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, byGRAVES & YOUNG, in the Clerk's Office for the District Court of Massachusetts

Copyright, 1894, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward. 

PREFACE. 

Having been asked to write a preface to the new edition of the Gypsybooks, I am not a little perplexed. I was hardly more than a girl myself, when I recorded the history of this young person; and I find it hard, atthis distance, to photograph her as she looks, or ought to look to-day. She does not sit still long enough to be "taken. " I see a lively girl inpretty short dresses and very long stockings, --quite a Tom-boy, if Iremember rightly. She paddles a raft, she climbs a tree, she skates andtramps and coasts, she is usually very muddy, and a little torn. There isapt to be a pin in her gathers; but there is sure to be a laugh in hereyes. Wherever there is mischief, there is Gypsy. Yet, wherever there isfun, and health, and hope, and happiness, --and I think, wherever there istruthfulness and generosity, --there is Gypsy, too. 

And now, the publishers tell me that Gypsy is thirty years old, and thatgirls who were not so much as born when I knew the little lady, are herreaders and her friends to-day. 

Thirty years old? Indeed, it is more than that! For is it not thirty yearssince the publication of her memoirs? And was she, at that time, possiblysixteen? Forty-six years? Incredible! How in the world did Gypsy "growup?" For that was before toboggans and telephones, before bicycles andelectric cars, before bangs and puffed sleeves, before girls studiedGreek, and golf-capes came in. Did she go to college? For the Annex, andSmith, and Wellesley were not. Did she have a career? Or take a husband?Did she edit a Quarterly Review, or sing a baby to sleep? Did she writepoetry, or make pies? Did she practice medicine, or matrimony? Who knows?Not even the author of her being. 

Only one thing I do know: Gypsy never grew up to be "timid, " or silly, ormean, or lazy; but a sensible woman, true and strong; asking little helpof other people, but giving much; an honor to her brave and loving sex, and a safe comrade to the girls who kept step with her into middle life;and I trust that I may bespeak from their daughters and their scholars akindly welcome to an old story, told again. 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 

Newton Centre, Mass. , _April, 1895. _

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I WHICH INTRODUCES HER 7CHAPTER II A SPASM OF ORDER 21CHAPTER III MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR 42CHAPTER IV GYPSY HAS A DREAM 69CHAPTER V WHAT SHE SAW 89CHAPTER VI UP IN THE APPLE TREE 105CHAPTER VII JUST LIKE GYPSY 126CHAPTER VIII PEACE MAYTHORNE 146CHAPTER IX CAMPING OUT 167CHAPTER X THE END OF THE WEEK 202CHAPTER XI GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON 213CHAPTER XII NO PLACE LIKE HOME 242

GYPSY BREYNTON

CHAPTER I

WHICH INTRODUCES HER

"Gypsy Breynton. Hon. Gypsy Breynton, Esq. , M. A. , D. D. , LL. D. , &c. , &c. Gypsy Breynton, R. R. "

Tom was very proud of his handwriting. It was black and business-like, round and rolling and readable, and drowned in a deluge of hair-lineflourishes, with little black curves in the middle of them. It had beenacquired in the book-keeping class of Yorkbury high school, and had takena prize at the end of the summer term. And therefore did Tom lean back inhis chair, and survey, with intense satisfaction, the great sheet ofsermon-paper which was covered with his scrawlings. 

Tom was a handsome fellow, if he did look very well pleased with himselfat that particular moment. His curly hair was black and bright, andbrushed off from a full forehead, and what with that faint, dark line ofmoustache just visible above his lips, and that irresistible twinkle tohis great merry eyes, it was no wonder Gypsy was proud of him, as indeedshe certainly was, nor did she hesitate to tell him so twenty times a day. This was a treatment of which Tom decidedly approved. Exactly howbeneficial it was to the growth within him of modesty, self-forgetfulness, and the passive virtues generally, is another question. 

The room in which Tom was sitting might have been exhibited with profit byMr. Barnum, as a legitimate relic of that chaos and Old Night, which thepoets tell us was dispelled by the light of this order-loving creation. 

It had a bed in it, as well as several chairs and a carpet, but itrequired considerable search to discover them, for the billows of femininedrapery that were piled upon them. Three dresses, --Tom counted, to makesure, --one on the bedpost, one rolled up in a heap on the floor where ithad fallen, and one spread out on the counterpane, with benzine on it. What with kerosene oil, candle drippings, and mugs of milk, Gypsy managedto keep one dress under the benzine treatment all the time; it was anestablished institution, and had long ago ceased to arouse remark, evenfrom Tom. There was also a cloak upon one chair, and a crocheted cape tiedby the tassels on another. There was a white tippet hanging on thestovepipe. There was a bandbox up in one corner with a pretty hat lying onthe outside, its long, light feather catching the dust; it was three daysnow since Sunday. There were also two pairs of shoes, one pair of rubbers, and one slipper under the bed; the other slipper lay directly in themiddle of the room. Then the wardrobe door was wide open, --it was too fullto stay shut, --upon a sight which, I think, even Gypsy would hardly wantput into print. White skirts and dressing-sacks; winter hoods that oughtto have been put up in camphor long ago; aprons hung up by the trimming; acalico dress that yawned mournfully out of a twelve-inch tear in theskirt; a pile of stockings that had waited long, and were likely to waitlonger, for darning; some rubber-boots and a hatchet. 

The bureau drawers, Tom observed, were tightly shut, --probably for verygood reasons. The table, at which he sat, was a curiosity to thespeculative mind. The cloth was two-thirds off, and slipping, by a verygradual process, to the floor. On the remaining third stood an inkstandand a bottle of mucilage, as well as a huge pile of books, a glasstumbler, a Parian vase, a jack-knife, a pair of scissors, a thimble, twospools of thread, a small kite, and a riding-whip. The rest of the tablehad been left free to draw a map on, and was covered with pencils andrubber, compasses, paper, and torn geography leaves. 

There were several pretty pictures on the walls, but they were all hungcrookedly; the curtain at the window was unlooped, and you could writeyour name anywhere in the dust that covered mantel, stove, and furniture. 

And this was Gypsy's room. 

Tom had spent a longer time in looking at it than I have taken to tellabout it, and when he was through looking he did one of those things thatbig brothers of sixteen long years' experience in this life, who arealways teasing you and making fun of you and "preaching" at you, areafflicted with a chronic and incurable tendency to do. It is veryfortunate that Gypsy deserved it, for it was really a horrible thing, girls, and if I were you I wouldn't let my brothers read about it, as youvalue your peace of mind, lace collars, clean clothes, good tempers, andprivate property generally. I'd put a pin through these leaves, or fastenthem together with sealing-wax, or cut them out, before I'd run the risk. 

And what did he do? Why, he put a chair in the middle of the room, tied abroom to it (he found it in the corner with a little heap of dust behindit, as Gypsy had left it when her mother sent her up to sweep the roomthat morning), and dressed it up in the three dresses, the cloaks and thecape, one above another, the chair serving as crinoline. Upon the top ofthe broom-handle he tied the torn apron, stuffed out with therubber-boots, and pinned on slips of the geography leaves for features;Massachusetts and Vermont giving the graceful effect of one pink eye andone yellow eye, Australia making a very blue nose, and Japan a small greenmouth. The hatchet and the riding-whip served as arms, and the wholefigure was surmounted by the Sunday hat that had the dust on its feather. From under the hem of the lowest dress, peeped the toes of all the pairsof shoes and rubbers, and the entire contents of the sliding table-cloth, down to every solitary pencil, needle, and crumb of cake, were ranged in aline on the carpet. To crown the whole, he pinned upon the image thatpaper placard upon which he had been scribbling. 

When his laudable work was completed, this ingenious and remorseless boyhad to stand and laugh at it for five minutes. If Gypsy had only seen himthen! And Gypsy was nearer than he thought--in the front door, and comingup the stairs with a great banging and singing and laughing, as nobody butGypsy could come up stairs. Tom just put his hand on the window-sill, andgave one leap out on the kitchen roof, and Gypsy burst in, and stoppedshort. 

Tom crouched down against the side of the house, and held his breath. Forabout half a minute it was perfectly still. Then a soft, merry laugh brokeout all at once on the air, something as a little brook would splash downin a sudden cascade on the rocks. 

"O--oh! Did you ever? I never _saw_ anything so funny! Oh, dear _me!_"

Then it was still again, and then the merry laugh began to spell out theplacard. 

"Gypsy Breynton. Hon. --Hon. Gypsy Breynton, --what? Oh, Esq. , M. A. , D. D. , LL. D. --what a creature he is! Gypsy Breynton, R. R. _R. R. ?_ I'm sure Idon't know what that means--Tom! Thom--as!"

Just then she caught sight of him out on the ridge-pole, whittling away ascoolly as if he had sat there all his life. 

"Good afternoon, " said Gypsy, politely. 

"Good afternoon, " said Tom. 

"Been whittling out there ever since dinner, I suppose?"

"Certainly. "

"I thought so. Come here a minute. "

"Come out here, " said Tom. Gypsy climbed out of the window without theslightest hesitation, and walked along the ridge-pole with the ease andfearlessness of a boy. She had on a pretty blue delaine dress, which waswet and torn, and all stuck together with burs; her boots were coveredwith mud to the ankle; her white stockings spattered and brown; her turbanwas hanging round her neck by its elastic; her net had come off, and thewind was blowing her hair all over her eyes; she had her sack thrown overone arm, and a basket filled to overflowing, with flowers and green moss, upon the other. 

"Well, you're a pretty sight!" said Tom, leisurely regarding her. Indeed, he was not far from right. In spite of the mud and the burs and the tears, and the general dropping-to-pieces look about her, Gypsy managed, somehowor other, to look as pretty as a picture, with her cheeks as red as acoral, and the soft brown hair that was tossing about her eyes. Gypsy'seyes were the best part of her. They were very large and brown, and hadthat same irresistible twinkle that was in Tom's eyes, only a great dealmore of it; and then it was always there. They twinkled when she was happyand when she was cross; they twinkled over her school-books; theytwinkled, in spite of themselves, at church and Sabbath school; and, whenshe was at play, they shone like a whole galaxy of stars. If ever Gypsy'seyes ceased twinkling, people knew she was going to be sick. Her hair, Iam sorry to say, was _not_ curly. 

This was Gypsy's one unalleviated affliction in life. That a girl couldpossibly be pretty with straight hair, had never once entered her mind. All the little girls in story-books had curls. Who ever heard of thestraight-haired maiden that made wreaths of the rosebuds, or saw thefairies, or married the Prince? And Gypsy's hair was not only straight, itwas absolutely uncurlable. A week's penance "done up in paper" made nomore impression than if you were to pinch it. 

However, that did not interfere with her making a bit of a picture, perched up there on the roof beside Tom, among her burs and her flowersand her moss, her face all dimples from forehead to chin. 

"Where have you been?" said Tom, trying to look severe, and making a mostremarkable failure. 

"Oh, only over to the three-mile swamp after white violets. Sarah Rowe, she got her two hands full, and then she just fell splash into the water, full length, and lost 'em--Oh, dear me, how I laughed! She did look sofunny. "

"Your boots are all mud, " said Tom. 

"Who cares?" said Gypsy, with a merry laugh, tipping all the wet, earthymoss out on her lap, as she spoke. "See! isn't there a quantity? I likemoss 'cause it fills up. Violets are pretty enough, only you _do_ have topick 'em one at a time. Innocence comes up by the handful, --only mine'smost all roots. "

"I don't know what's going to become of you, " said Tom, drawing down thecorner of his mouth. 

"Neither do I, " said Gypsy, demurely; "I wish I did. "

"You won't learn to apply yourself to anything, " persisted Tom. "Work orplay, there's no system to you. You're like a----" Tom paused for asimile--"Well, like a toad that's always on the jump. "

"Ow!" said Gypsy, with a little scream, "there's a horrid old snailcrawled out my moss!" and over went moss, flowers, basket, and all, downthe roof and upon the stone steps below. "There! Good enough for it!"

Tom coughed and whittled. Gypsy pulled her net out of her basket, and putup her hair. There was a little silence. Nothing had yet been said aboutthe image in Gypsy's room, and both were determined not to be the first tospeak of it. Gypsy could have patience enough where a joke was inquestion, and as is very apt to be the case, the boy found himselfoutwitted. For not a word said Gypsy of the matter, and half an hourpassed and the supper-bell rang. 

"There!" said Gypsy, jumping up, "I do declare if it isn't supper, andI've got these burs to get off and my dress to mend and my shoes andstockings to change, and--Oh, dear! I wish people didn't ever have to dothings, anyway!"

With this very wise remark, she walked back across the ridge-pole andclimbed in the window. There was nothing for Tom to do but follow; whichhe did slowly and reluctantly. Something would have to be said now, at anyrate. But not a syllable said Gypsy. She went to the looking-glass, andbegan to brush her hair as unconcernedly as if everything were just as sheleft it and precisely as she wanted it. 

Tom passed through the room and out of the door; then he stopped. Gypsy'seyes began to twinkle as if somebody had dropped two little diamonds inthem. 

"I say, " said Tom. 

"What do you say?" replied Gypsy. 

"What do you suppose mother would have to say to you about this _looking_room?"

"I don't know what she'd say to you, I'm sure, " said Gypsy, gravely. 

"And you, a great girl, twelve years old!"

"I should like to know why I'm a railroad, anyway, " said Gypsy. 

"Who said you were a railroad?"

"Whoever wrote Gypsy Breynton, R. R. , with my red ink. "

"That doesn't stand for railroad. "

"Doesn't? Well, what?"

"Regular Romp. "

"Oh!"

CHAPTER II

A SPASM OF ORDER

"I can't help it, " said Gypsy, after supper; "I can't possibly help it, and it's no use for me to try. "

"If you cannot help it, " replied Mrs. Breynton, quietly, "then it is nofault of yours, but in every way a suitable and praiseworthy condition ofthings that you should keep your room looking as I would be ashamed tohave a servant's room look, in my house. People are never to blame forwhat they can't help. "

"Oh, there it is again!" said Gypsy, with the least bit of a blush, "youalways stop me right off with that, on every subject, from saying myprayers down to threading a needle. "

"Your mother was trained in the new-school theology, and she applies herprinciples to things terrestrial as well as things celestial, " observedher father, with an amused smile. 

"Yes, sir, " said Gypsy, without the least idea what he was talking about. 

"Besides, " added Mrs. Breynton, finishing, as she spoke, the long darn inGypsy's dress, "I think people who give right up at little difficulties, on the theory that they can't help it, are----"

"Oh, I know that too!"

"What?"

"Cowards. "

"Exactly. "

"I hate cowards, " said Gypsy, in a little flash, and then stood with herback half turned, her eyes fixed on the carpet, as if she were puzzlingout a proposition in Euclid, somewhere hidden in its brown oak-leaves. 

"Take a chair, and sit by the window and think of it, " remarked Tom, inhis most aggravating tone. 

"That's precisely what I intend to do, sir, " said Gypsy; and was as goodas her word. She went up-stairs and shut her door, and, what wasremarkable, nobody saw anything more of her. What was still moreremarkable, nobody heard anything of her. For a little while it wasperfectly still overhead. 

"I hope she isn't crying, " said Mr. Breynton, who was always afraid Gypsywas doing something she ought not to do, and who was in about such a stateof continual astonishment over the little nut-brown romp that had beenmaking such commotion in his quiet home for twelve years, as a respectablemiddle-aged and kind-hearted oyster might be, if a lively young toad wereshut up in his shell. 

"Catch her!" said the more appreciative Tom; "I don't believe she criesfour times a year. That's the best part of Gyp. ; with all her faults, there's none of your girl's nonsense about her. "

Another person in the room, who had listened to the conversation, went offat this period into a sudden fit of curiosity concerning Gypsy, andstarted up-stairs to find her. This was Master Winthrop Breynton, familiarly and disrespectfully known as Winnie. A word must be said as tothis young person; for, whatever he may be in the eyes of other people, hewas of considerable importance in his own. He had several distinguishingcharacteristics, as is apt to be the case with gentlemen of his age andexperience. One was that he was five lengthy and important years of age;of which impressive fact his friends, relatives, and chance acquaintances, were informed at every possible and impossible opportunity. Another was, that there were always, _at least_, half a dozen buttons off from hisjacket, at all times and places, though his long-suffering mother lived inher work-basket. A third, lay in the fact that he never walked. Hetrotted, he cantered, he galloped; he progressed in jerks, in jumps, insomersets; he crawled up-stairs like a little Scotch plaid spider, on "allfours;" he came down stairs on the banisters, the balance of power lyingbetween his steel buttons and the smooth varnish of the mahogany. Onseveral memorable occasions, he has narrowly escaped pitching head firstinto the hall lamp. His favorite method of locomotion, however, consistedin a series of _thumps_, beginning with a gentle tread, and increasing inimpetus by mathematical progression till it ended in a thunder-clap. Along hall to him was bliss unalloyed; the bare garret floor a dream ofdelight, and the plank walk in the woodshed an ecstasy. Still a fourthpeculiarity was a pleasing habit when matters went contrary to hisexpressed wishes, of throwing himself full length upon the floor withoutany warning whatsoever, squirming around in his clothes, and crying at thetop of his lungs. Added to this is the fact that, for some unaccountablereason, Winnie's eyes were so blue, and Winnie's laugh so funny, andWinnie's hands were so pink and little, that somehow or other Winniedidn't get half the scoldings he deserved. But who is there of us thatdoes, for that matter?

Well, Winnie it was who stamped across the hall, and crawled up-stairshand over hand, and stamped across the upper entry, and pounded on Gypsy'sdoor, and burst it open, and slammed in with one of Winnie's inimitableshouts. 

"Oh _Win_nie!"

"I say, father wants to know if----"

"Just _see_ what you've done!"

Winnie stopped short, in considerable astonishment. Gypsy was sitting onthe floor beside one of her bureau drawers which she had pulled out of itsplace. That drawer was a sight well worth seeing, by the way; but of thatpresently. Gypsy had taken out of it a little box (without a cover, likeall Gypsy's boxes) filled with beadwork, --collars, cuffs, nets, andbracelets, all tumbled in together, and as much as a handful of loosebeads of every size, color, and description, thrown down on the bottom. Gypsy was sorting these beads, and this was what had kept her so still. Now Winnie, in slamming into the room after his usual style, had steppeddirectly into the box, crushed its pasteboard flat, and scattered theunlucky beads to all four points of the compass. 

Gypsy sat for about half a minute watching the stream of crimson and blueand black and silver and gold, that was rolling away under the bed and thechair and the table, her face a perfect little thunder-cloud. Then shetook hold of Winnie's shoulder, without any remarks, and--shook him. 

It was a little shake, and, if it had been given in good temper, would nothave struck Winnie as anything but a pleasant joke. But he knew, fromGypsy's face, it was no joke; and, feeling his dignity insulted, down hewent flat upon the floor with a scream and a jerk that sent two freshbuttons flying off from his jacket. 

Mrs. Breynton ran up-stairs in a great hurry. 

"What's the matter, Gypsy?"

"She sh--sh--shooked me--the old thing!" sobbed Winnie. 

"He broke my box and lost all my beads, and I've got them all to pick upjust as I was trying to put my room in order, and so I was mad, " saidGypsy, frankly. 

"Winnie, you may go down stairs, " said Mrs. Breynton, "you must learn tobe more careful with Gypsy's things. "

Winnie slid down on the banisters, and Mrs. Breynton shut the door. 

"What are you trying to do, Gypsy?"

"Pick up my room, " said Gypsy. 

"But what had that to do with stringing the beads?"

"Why, I--don't know exactly. I took out my drawer to fix it up, and mybeads were all in a muss, and so I thought I'd sort them, and then Iforgot. "

"I see several things in the room that want putting in order before alittle box of beads, " said Mrs. Breynton, with a smile that was halfamused, half sorrowful. Gypsy cast a deprecating glance around the room, and into her mother's face. 

"Oh, I _did_ mean to shut the wardrobe door, and I thought I'd taken thebroom down stairs as much as could be, but that everlasting Tom had to goand---- Oh dear! did you ever see anything so funny in all your life?" AndGypsy looked at the image, and broke into one of her rippling laughs. 

"It is really a serious matter, Gypsy, " said Mrs. Breynton, lookingsomewhat troubled at the laugh. 

"I know it, " said Gypsy, sobering down, "and I came up-stairs on purposeto put everything to rights, and then I was going to live like otherpeople, and keep my stockings darned, and--then I had to go head firstinto a box of beads, and that was the end of me. It's always so. "

"You know, Gypsy, it is one of the signs of a lady to keep one's room inorder; I've told you so many times. "

"I know it, " said Gypsy, forlornly; "don't you remember when I was alittle bit of a thing, my telling you that I guessed God made a mistakewhen he made me, and put in some ginger-beer somehow, that was alwaysgoing off? It's pretty much so; the cork's always coming out at the wrongtime. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Breynton, with a smile, "I'm glad you're trying afreshto hammer it in. Pick up the beads, and tear down the image, and go towork with a little system. You'll be surprised to find how fast the roomwill come to order. "

"I think, " she added, as she shut the door, "that it was hardly worthwhile to----"

"To shake Winnie?" interrupted Gypsy, demurely. "No, not at all; I oughtto have known better. "

Mrs. Breynton did not offer to help Gypsy in the task which bade fair tobe no easy one, of putting her room in order; but, with a few encouragingwords, she went down stairs and left her. It would have been far easierfor her to have gone to work and done the thing herself, than to seeGypsy's face so clouded and discouraged. But she knew it would be the ruinof Gypsy. Her only chance of overcoming her natural thoughtlessness, andacquiring the habits of a lady, lay in the persistent doing over and overagain, by her own unaided patience, these very things that came so hard toher. Gypsy understood this perfectly, and had the good sense to think hermother was just right about it. It was not want of training, that gaveGypsy her careless fashion of looking after things. Mrs. Breynton was awise, as well as a loving mother, and had done everything in the way ofpunishment, reproof, warning, persuasion, and argument, that mothers cando for the faults of children. Nor was it for want of a good example, Mrs. Breynton was the very pink of neatness. It was a natural _kink_ in Gypsy, that was as hard to get out as a knot in an apple-tree, and which dependedentirely on the child's own will for its eradication. This disorder in herroom and about her toilet was only one development of it, and by no meansa fixed or continued one. Gypsy could be, and half the time she was, asorderly and lady-like as anybody. She did everything by fits and starts. As Tom said, she was "always on the jump. " If her dress didn't happen tobe torn and her room dusty, why, she had a turn of forgetting everything. If she didn't forget, she was always getting hurt. If it wasn't that, shelost her temper every five minutes. Or else she was making terribleblunders, and hurting people's feelings; something was always the matter;and some one was always on the _qui vive_, wondering what Gypsy was goingto do next. 

Yet, in spite of it all, the person who did not love Gypsy Breynton(provided he knew her) was not to be found in Yorkbury. Whether there wasany reason for this, you can judge for yourself as the story goes on. 

After her mother had gone down, Gypsy went to work in earnest. She pickedup the beads, and put them back into the drawer which she left upon thefloor. Then she attacked Tom's image. It took her fully fifteen minutesmerely to get the thing to pieces, for the true boy-fashion in which itwas tied, pinned, sewed, and nailed together, would have been a puzzle toany feminine mind. She would have called Tom up to help her, but she wasjust a little bit too proud. 

The broom she put out in the entry the first thing; then, remembering thatthat was not systematic, she carried it down stairs and hung it on itsnail. The shoes and the dresses, the cape and the cloak, the tippet andthe hat, she put in their places; the torn apron and the unmendedstockings she tumbled into her basket, then went back and folded them upneatly; she also made a journey into the woodshed expressly to put thehatchet where it belonged, on the chopping-block. By this time it wasquite dark, but she lighted a lamp, and went at it afresh. Winnie came upto the entry door, and, at a respectful distance, told her they were"popping" corn down stairs; but she shook her head, and proceeded with herdusting like a hero. Tom whistled for her up the chimney-flue; but sheonly gave a little thump on the floor, and said she was busy. 

It was like walking into a labyrinth to dispose of the contents of thattable-cloth. How to put away the pencils and the rubber, when thedrawing-box was lost; how to collect all the cookey-crumbs and wanderingneedles, that slipped out of your finger as fast as you took hold of them;where on earth to put those torn geography leaves, that wouldn't stay inthe book, and couldn't be thrown away; where _was_ the cork to theinkstand? and how should she hang up the riding-whip, with the stringgone? These were questions that might well puzzle a more systematic mindthan Gypsy's. However, in due time, the room was restored to an order thatwas delightful to see, --for, if Gypsy made up her mind to a thing, shecould do it thoroughly and skilfully, --and she returned to the bureaudrawer. This drawer was a fair specimen of the rest of Gypsy's drawers, shelves, and cupboards, and their name was Legion. Moreover, it was an"upper drawer, " and where is the girl that does not know what a delicatescience is involved in the rearranging of these upper drawers? So manylaces, and half-worn collars that don't belong there, are always gettingin; loose coppers have such a way of accumulating in the crevices; allyour wandering pins and hair-pins make it a rendezvous by a species offree-masonry utterly inexplicable; then your little boxes fit in sotightly, and never have room to open, and are always getting their coverscaught when you shut the drawer, and, when you try to keep them down, youpinch your fingers so. 

Please to imagine, O orderly readers! who keep every pin in its properplace, the worst looking upper drawer that your horrified eyes everbeheld, and you will have some idea of this drawer of Gypsy's. 

There were boxes large, and boxes small, boxes round, square, and oblong;boxes with covers (only two), and boxes without; handkerchiefs, under-sleeves, collars, --both clean and soiled, --laces and ribbons, andbows and nets; purses and old gloves, a piece of soap, a pile of letters, scratched and scattering jewelry, a piece of dried cake, several fans allcovered with dust, and nobody knew what not, in the lower strata, out ofsight. 

Gypsy sat and looked at it for about two minutes in utter despair. Thenshe just turned the whole thing bottom upwards in a great heap on thefloor, and began to investigate matters, with her cheeks very red. 

Presently, the family down stairs heard a little scream. Winnie stamped upto see what was the matter. 

"Why, I've found my grammar!" said Gypsy. "It's the one in marble covers Ilost ever--ever so long ago, and had to get a new one. It was right downat the bottom of the drawer!"

Pretty soon there was another little scream, and Gypsy called down thechimney:

"Tom Breynton! What do you think? I've found that dollar bill of yours youthought I'd burnt up. "

After awhile there came still another scream, a pretty loud one this time. Mrs. Breynton came up to see what had happened. 

"I've cut my hand, " said Gypsy, faintly; "there was a great heap of brokenglass in my drawer!"

"_Broken glass!_"

"Yes, I'm sure I don't know how it came there; I guess I was going toframe a picture. "

Mrs. Breynton bound up her finger, and went down again. She was no morethan fairly seated before there came from up-stairs, not a scream, but oneof the merriest laughs that ever was heard. 

"What is to pay, now?" called Tom, from the entry. 

"Oh, dear!" gasped Gypsy; "it's too funny for anything! If here isn't the_carving-knife_ we scolded Patty for losing last winter, and--Oh, Tom, just look here!--my stick of peanut candy, that I thought I'd eaten up, all stuck on to my lace under-sleeves!"

It was past Gypsy's bed-time when the upper drawer was fairly in order andput back in its place. Three others remained to go through the sameprocess, as well as wardrobe shelves innumerable. Gypsy, with hercharacteristic impulsiveness, would have sat up till twelve o'clock tocomplete the work, but her mother said "No" very decidedly, and so it mustwait till to-morrow. 

Tom came in just as everything was done, and Gypsy had drawn a long breathand stood up to look, with great satisfaction, all around her pleasant, orderly room. 

"Well done! I say, Gypsy, what a jewel you are when you're a mind to be. "

"Of course, I am. Have you just found it out?"

"Well, you know you're a diamond, decidedly in the rough, as a generalthing. You need cutting down and polishing. "

"And you to polish me? Well, I like the looks of this room, anyhow. It_is_ nice to have things somewhere where you won't trip over them when youwalk across the room--only if somebody else would pick 'em up for me. "

"How long do you suppose it will last?" asked Tom, with an air of greatsuperiority. 

"Tom, " said Gypsy, solemnly; "that's a serious question. "

"It might last forever if you have a mind to have it, --come now, Gyp. , whynot?"

"That's a long time, " said Gypsy, shaking her head; "I wouldn't trustmyself two inches. To-morrow I shall be in a hurry to go to school; then Ishall be in a hurry to go to dinner; then I shall be in a _ter_rible hurryto get off with Sarah Rowe, and so it goes. However, I'll see. I feel, to-night, precisely as if I should never want to take a single pin out ofthose little black squares I've put them into on the cushion. "

Gypsy found herself in a hurry the next day and the next, and is likelyto, to the end of her life, I am afraid. But she seemed to have taken alittle gasp of order, and for a long time no one had any complaint to makeof Gypsy's room or Gypsy's toilet. 

CHAPTER III

MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR

As will be readily supposed, Gypsy's name was not her original one; thoughit might have been, for there have been actual Billys and Sallys, whobegan and ended Billys and Sallys only. 

Gypsy's real name was an uncouth one--Jemima. It was partly for thisreason, partly for its singular appropriateness, that her nickname hadentirely transplanted the lawful and ugly one. 

This subject of nicknames is a curiosity. All rules of euphony, fitness, and common sense, that apply to other things, are utterly at fault here. Ababy who cannot talk plainly, dubs himself "Tuty, " or "Dess, " or "Pet, " or"Honey, " and forthwith becomes Tuty, Dess, Pet, or Honey, the rest of hismortal life. All the particularly cross and disagreeable girls are Birdiesand Sunbeams. All the brunettes with loud voices and red hands, who aregrowing up into the "strong-minded women, " are Lilies and Effies andAngelinas, and other etherial creatures; while the little shallow, pink-and-white young ladies who cry very often and "get nervous, " arequite as likely to be royal Constance, or Elizabeth, without any nicknameat all. 

But Gypsy's name had undoubtedly been foreordained, so perfectly was itsuited to Gypsy. For never a wild rover led a more untamed and happy life. Summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, found Gypsy out in the open air, as many hours out of the twenty-four as were not absolutely bolted andbarred down into the school-room and dreamland. A fear of the weathernever entered into Gypsy's creed; drenchings and freezings were so manysoap-bubbles, --great fun while they lasted, and blown right away by drystockings and mother's warm fire; so where was the harm? A good briskthunderstorm out in the woods, with the lightning quivering all about herand the thunder crashing over her, was simple delight. A day of snow andsleet, with drifts knee-deep, and winds like so many little knives, was afestival. If you don't know the supreme bliss of a two-mile walk on such aday, when you have to shut your eyes, and wade your way, then Gypsy wouldpity you. Not a patch of woods, a pond, a brook, a river, a mountain, inthe region (and there, in Vermont, there were plenty of them), but Gypsyknew it by heart. 

There was not a trout-brook for miles where she had not fished. There washardly a tree she had not climbed, or a fence or stone-wall--provided, ofcourse, that it was away from the main road and people's eyes--that shehad not walked. Gypsy could row and skate and swim, and play ball and makekites, and coast and race, and drive, and chop wood. Altogether Gypsyseemed like a very pretty, piquant mistake; as if a mischievous boy hadsomehow stolen the plaid dresses, red cheeks, quick wit, and littleindescribable graces of a girl, and was playing off a continual joke onthe world. Old Mrs. Surly, who lived opposite, and wore green spectacles, used to roll up her eyes, and say What _would_ become of that child? Awhit cared Gypsy for Mrs. Surly! As long as her mother thought the sportand exercise in the open air a fine thing for her, and did not complain ofthe torn dresses oftener than twice a week, she would roll her hoop andtoss her ball under Mrs. Surly's very windows, and laugh merrily to seethe green glasses pushed up and taken off in horror at what Mrs. Surlytermed an "impropriety. "

Therefore it created no surprise in the family one morning, whenschool-time came and passed, and Gypsy did not make her appearance, thatshe was reported to be "making a raft" down in the orchard swamp. 

"Run and call her, Winnie, " said Mrs. Breynton. "Tell her it is very late, and I want her to come right up, --remember. "

"Yes mum, " said Winnie, with unusual alacrity, and started off down thelane as fast as his copper-toed feet could carry him. It was quite a longlane, and a very pleasant one in summer. There was a row of hazel-nutbushes, always green and sweet, on one side, and a stone-wall on theother, with the broad leaves and tiny blossoms of a grape-vine trailingover it. The lane opened into a wide field which had an apple-orchard atone end of it, and sloped down over quite a little hill into a piece ofmarshy ground, where ferns and white violets, anemones, and sweet-flaggrew in abundance. In the summer, the water was apt to dry up. In thespring, it was sometimes four feet deep. It was a pleasant spot, for themountains lay all around it, and shut it in with their great forest-arms, and the sharp peaks that were purple and crimson and gold, under passingshadows and fading sunsets. And, then, is there any better fun than topaddle in the water?

Gypsy looked as if she thought not, when Winnie suddenly turned thecorner, and ran down the slope. 

She had finished her raft, and launched it off from the root of an oldoak-tree that grew half in the water, and, with a long pole, had pushedherself a third of the way across the swamp. Her dress was tucked up overher bright balmoral, and the ribbons of her hat were streaming in thewind. She had no mittens or gloves on her hands, which were very pink andplump, and her feet were incased in high rubber boots. 

"Hullo!" said Winnie, walking out on the root of the oak. 

"Hilloa!" said Gypsy. 

"I say--that's a bully raft. "

"To be sure it is. "

"I haven't had a ride on a raft since--why since 'leven or six years agowhen I was a little boy. I shouldn't wonder if it was twenty-three years, either. "

"Oh, I can't bear people that hint. Why don't you say right out, if youwant a ride?"

"I want a ride, " said Winnie, without any hesitation. 

"Wait till I turn her round. I'll bring her up on the larboard side, "replied Gypsy, in the tone of an old salt of fifty years' experience. 

So she paddled up to the oak-tree, and Winnie jumped on board. 

"I guess we'll have time to row across and back before school, " saidGypsy, pushing off. 

Winnie maintained a discreet silence. 

"I don't suppose it's very late, " said Gypsy. 

"Oh, just look at that toad with a green head, down in the water!"observed Winnie. 

They paddled on a little ways in silence. 

"What makes your cheeks so red?" asked Gypsy. 

"I guess it's scarlet fever, or maybe it's appleplexy, you know. "

"Oh!"

Just then Winnie gave a little scream. 

"Look here--Gyp. ! The boat's goin'clock down. I don't want to go verymuch. I saw another toad down there. "

"I declare!" said Gypsy, "we're going to be swamped, as true as you live!It isn't strong enough to bear two, --sit still, Winnie. Perhaps we'll getashore. "

But no sooner had she spoken the words than the water washed up about herankles, and Winnie's end of the raft went under. The next she knew, theywere both floundering in the water. 

It chanced to be about three feet and a half deep, very cold, and somewhatslimy. Gypsy had a strong impression that a frog jumped into her neck whenshe plunged, head first, into the deep mud at the bottom. After a littlesplashing and gasping, she regained her feet, and stood up to her elbowsin the water. But what she could do, Winnie could not. He had sunk in thesoft mud, and even if he had had the courage to stand up straight, thewater would have been above his head. But it had never occurred to him todo otherwise than lie gasping and flat on the bottom, where he wasdrowning as fast as he possibly could. 

Gypsy pulled him out and carried him ashore. She wrung him out a little, and set him down on the grass, and then, by way of doing something, shetook her dripping handkerchief out of her dripping pocket and wiped herhands on it. 

"O--o--oh!" gasped Winnie; "I never did--you'd ought to know--you've justgone'n drownded me!"

"What a story!" said Gypsy; "you're no more drowned than I am. To be sureyou _are_ rather wet, " she added, with a disconsolate attempt at a laugh. 

"You oughtn't to have tooken me out on that old raft, " glared Winnie, through the shower of water-drops that rained down from his forehead, "youknow you hadn't! I'll just tell mother. I'll get sick and be died afterit, you see if I don't. "

"Very well, " said Gypsy, giving herself a little shake, very much as apretty brown spaniel would do, who had been in swimming. 

"You may do as you like. Who teased to go on the raft, I'd like to know?"

"_Besides_, " resumed Winnie, with an impressive cough; "you're late toschool, 'cause mother, she said you was to come right up when she sent medown, only I--well I guess, I b'lieve I forgot to tell you, --I ratherthink I did. Anyways, you're late, --_so_!"

Gypsy looked at Winnie, and Winnie looked at Gypsy. There was an awfulsilence. 

"Winnie Breynton, " said Gypsy, solemnly, "if you don't get one whipping!"

"I don't care to hear folks talk, " interrupted Winnie, with dignity, "I amfive years old. "

Gypsy's reply is not recorded. 

I have heard it said that when Tom espied the two children coming up thelane, he went to his mother with the information that the fishman wassomewhere around, only he had sent his fishes on ahead of him. Theyappeared to have been freshly caught, and would, he thought, make severaldinners; but I cannot take the responsibility of the statement. 

It was very late, much nearer ten o'clock than nine, when Gypsy was fairlymetamorphosed into a clean, dry, very penitent-looking child. 

She hurried off to school, leaving Winnie and his mother in closeconference. Exactly what happened on the occasion of that interview, hasnever been made known to an inquiring public. 

On the way to school Gypsy had as many as six sober thoughts; a largernumber than she was usually capable of in forty-eight hours. One was, thatit was too bad she had got so wet. Another was, that she really supposedit was her business to know when school-time came, no matter where she wasor what she was doing. Another, that she had made her mother a great dealof trouble. A fourth was, that she was sorry to be so late at school--italways made Miss Melville look so; and then a bad mark was not, on thewhole, a desirable thing. Still a fifth was, that she would never do sucha thing again as long as she lived--_never_. The sixth lay in a valiantdetermination to behave herself the rest of this particular day. She wouldstudy hard. She would get to the head of the class. She wouldn't put asingle pin in the girls' chairs, nor tickle anybody, nor make up funnyfaces, nor whisper, nor make one of the girls laugh, not one, not eventhat silly Delia Guest, who laughed at nothing, --why, you couldn't so muchas make a doll out of your handkerchief and gloves, and hang it on yourpen-handle, but what she had to go into a spasm over it. 

No, she wouldn't do a single funny thing all day. She would just sit stilland look sober and sorry, and not trouble Miss Melville in the least. Hermind was quite made up. 

Just as she had arrived at this conclusion she came to the school-housedoor. Gypsy and a number of other girls, both her own age and younger, whoeither were not prepared to enter the high school, or whose parentspreferred the select school system, composed Miss Melville's charge. Theywere most of them pleasant girls, and Miss Melville was an unusuallysuccessful teacher, and as dearly loved as a judicious teacher can be. Theschool-house was a bit of a brown building tucked away under someapple-trees on a quiet by-road. It had been built for a district school, but had fallen into disuse years ago, and Miss Melville had takenpossession of it. 

Gypsy slackened her pace as she passed under the apple-boughs, where thetiny, budding leaves filled all the air with faint fragrance. It wasnearly recess time; she knew, because she could hear, through the windows, the third geography class reciting. It was really too bad to be so late. She went up the steps slowly, the corners of her mouth drawn down aspenitently as Gypsy's mouth could well be. 

Just inside the door she stopped. A quick color ran all over her face, hereyes began to twinkle like sparks from a great fire of hickory, and, in aninstant, every one of those six sober thoughts was gone awaysomewhere--nobody could have told where; and the funniest little laughbroke the silence of the entry. 

The most interested observer could not have told what Gypsy saw that wasso very amusing. The entry was quite deserted. Nothing was to be seen buta long row of girls' "things, " hanging up on the nails--hats and bonnets, tippets, sacks, rubbers, and baskets; apparently as demure and respectableas hats, bonnets, tippets, sacks, rubbers, and baskets could be. Yet thereGypsy stood for as much as a minute laughing away quietly to herself, asif she had come across some remarkable joke. 

About ten minutes after, some one knocked at the school-room door. MissMelville laid down her geography. 

"Cape Ann, Cape Hatteras, Cape--may I go to the door?" piped little CelyHunt, holding up her hand. Miss Melville nodded and Cely went. She openedthe door--and jumped. 

"What's the matter, Cely?--Oh!" For there stood the funniest old womanthat Cely or Miss Melville had ever seen. She had on a black dress, verylong and very scant, that looked as if it were made out of an oldwaterproof cloak. Over that, she wore a curious drab-silk sack, somewhatfaded and patched, with all the edges of the seams outside. Over that, wasa plaid red-and-green shawl, tied about her waist. There was a littleblack shawl over that, and a green tippet wound twice around her throatwith the ends tucked in under the shawl. She had a pair of black mitts onher hands, and she carried a basket. Her face no one could see, for it wascovered with a thick green veil, tied closely about her bonnet. 

Cely gave a little scream, and ran behind the door. Miss Melville steppeddown from the platform, and went to meet the visitor. 

"Good arternoon, " said the old woman, in a very shrill voice. 

"Good afternoon, " said Miss Melville, politely. 

"I come to see the young uns, " piped the old woman. "I ben deown teown fursome eggs, an'clock I heerd the little creaturs a sayin'clock of theirlessons as I come by, an'clock thinks says I to myself, says I, blesstheir dear hearts, I'll go in an'clock see 'em, says I, an'clock I'llthank ye kindly for a seat, for I'm pretty nigh beat out. "

The scholars all began to laugh. Miss Melville, somewhat reluctantly, handed her visitor a chair by the door, but did not ask her upon theplatform, as the visitor seemed to expect. 

"There's a drefful draught here on my neck, " she muttered, discontentedly;"an'clock I'm terribly afflicted with rheumatiz mostly. Can't see much ofthe young uns here, nuther. "

"I doubt if there is much here that will interest you, " observed MissMelville, looking at her keenly. "You may rest yourself, and then I thinkyou had better go. Visitors always disturb the children. "

"Bless their dear hearts!" cried the old woman, shrilly. "They needn't beafraid of me--_I_ wouldn't hurt 'em. Had a little angel boy once myself;he's gone to Californy now, an'clock I'm a lone, lorn widdy. I say--littlegal!" and the stranger pointed her finger (it trembled a little) at SarahRowe, who had grown quite red in the face with her polite efforts not tolaugh. "Little gal, whar's yer manners?--laughin'clock at a poor olecreetur like me! Come out here, and le's hear ye say that beautiful psalmof Dr. Watts--now!"

"How doth the little busy bee!"

But just then something happened for which the old woman and the scholarswere equally unprepared. Miss Melville looked through the green veilstraight into the old woman's eyes, and said just one word. She said itvery quietly, and she said it without a smile. It was

"Gypsy!"

There was a great hush. Sarah Rowe was the first to break it. 

"Why, that's my sack turned wrong side out!"

"And those are my mitts!" said Agnes Gaylord. 

"If you please, Miss Melville, that's my black shawl, --I know it by theborder, " piped a very little girl in mourning. 

"I do believe that's my waterproof, and Lucy's plaid shawl, " giggled DeliaGuest. "Did you _ever_?"

"And my green veil, " put in somebody else, faintly. 

Miss Melville quietly removed the veil, and Gypsy looked up with hermischief bright all over her face. Her eyes fell, however, and her cheeksflushed crimson, when she saw the look about Miss Melville's mouth. 

"You may go and put away the things, Gypsy, " said Miss Melville, stillwithout a smile. Gypsy obeyed in silence. The girls stopped laughing, andbegan to whisper together behind the desk-covers. 

"The school will come to order, " said Miss Melville. "Cely, what is thelargest river in New England?--Next. "

Gypsy hung up the things, and came slowly back into the room. MissMelville motioned her to her seat, but took no further notice of her. Gypsy, silent and ashamed, took out her spelling-book, and began to study. The girls looked at her out of the corners of their eyes, and every nowand then Delia Guest broke out afresh into a smothered laugh, but no onespoke to her, and she spoke to nobody. 

The spelling-class was called out, but Miss Melville signified, by a look, that Gypsy was to keep her seat. Recess came, but Miss Melville was busywriting at her desk, and took no notice of her, further than to tell thegroup of girls, who had instantly clustered buzzing and laughing abouther, that they were all to go out doors and play. They went, and Gypsy satstill with her head behind the desk-cover. Something in Miss Melville'smanner said, louder than words, that she was displeased. It was a mannerwhich made Gypsy feel, for once in her life, that she had not one word tosay. 

She busied herself with her books, and tried to look unconcerned when thescholars came back. The arithmetic class recited, but her teacher did notcall for her; the history class, but no one spoke to Gypsy. The disgraceof this punishment was what Gypsy minded the most, though it was no slightthing to see so many "absent" marks going down on her report, when she wasright in the room and had learned her lessons. 

After what seemed to her an interminable time, the morning passed and theschool broke up. The children, controlled by that something in MissMelville's manner, and by Gypsy's averted head and burning cheeks, leftthe room quickly, and Gypsy and her teacher were alone. 

"Gypsy, " said Miss Melville. 

There was no answer. 

"Gypsy. "

There came a faint "Yes'm" from behind the desk-cover. Miss Melville laiddown her pencil, closed her own desk, and came and sat down on the benchbeside Gypsy. 

"I wonder if you are as sorry as I am, " she said, simply. 

Something very bright glittered on Gypsy's lashes, and two great dropsstood on her hot cheeks. 

"I don't see what possessed me!" she said, vehemently. "Why don't you turnme out of school?"

"I did not think you could willingly try to make me trouble, " continuedMiss Melville, without noticing the last remark. 

The two great drops rolled slowly down Gypsy's cheeks, and into her mouth. She swallowed them with a gulp, and brushed her hand, angrily, across hereyes. Gypsy very seldom cried, but I fancy she came pretty near it on thatoccasion. 

"Miss Melville, " she said, with an earnestness that was comical, in spiteof itself; "I wish you'd please to scold me. I should feel a great dealbetter. "

"Scoldings won't do you much good, " said Miss Melville, with a sad smile;"you must cure your own faults, Gypsy. Nobody else can do it for you. "

Gypsy turned around in a little passion of despair. 

"Miss Melville, _I can't_! It isn't in me--you don't know! Here thisvery morning I got late to school, tipping Winnie over in a raft--drenchedthrough both of us, and mother, so patient and sweet with the drystockings she'd just mended, and wasn't I sorry? Didn't I think about itall the way to school--the whole way, Miss Melville? And didn't I make upmy mind I'd be as good as a kitten all day, and sit still like AgnesGaylord, and not tickle the girls, nor make you any trouble, nor anything?Then what should I do but come into the entry and see those things, and itall came like a flash how funny it would be'n I'd talk up high like Mrs. Surly 'n you wouldn't know me, and--that was the last I thought, till youtook off the veil, and I wished I hadn't done it. It's just like me--Inever can help anything anyhow. "

"I think you can, " said her teacher, kindly. "You certainly had the power, when you stood out there in the entry, to stop and think before youtouched the things. "

"I don't know, " said Gypsy, shaking her head, thoughtfully; "I don'tbelieve I had. "

"But you wouldn't do it again?"

"I guess I wouldn't!" said Gypsy, with an emphasis. 

"What you can do one time, you can another, " said Miss Melville. 

Gypsy was silent. 

"There's one other thing about it, " continued her teacher, "besides theimpropriety of playing such a trick in school hours--that is, that it wasvery unkind to me. "

"Unkind!" exclaimed Gypsy. 

"Yes, " said Miss Melville, quietly, "unkind. "

"Why, Miss Melville, I wouldn't be unkind to you for anything!--I love youdearly. "

"Nevertheless, Gypsy, it was very unkind to deliberately set to work toannoy me and make me trouble, by getting the school into a frolic. Anything done to break the order of study-hours, or to withstand any ruleof the school, is always an unkindness to a teacher. There is scarcely agirl in school that might help me more than you, Gypsy, if you chose. "

"I don't see how, " said Gypsy, astonished. 

"I do, " said Miss Melville, smiling, "and I always think a little vote ofthanks to you, when you are quiet and well-behaved. An orderly scholar hasa great deal of influence. The girls all love you, and are apt to do asthey see you do, Gypsy. "

There was a little silence, in which Gypsy's eyes were wandering awayunder the apple-boughs, their twinkling dimmed and soft. 

At last she turned quickly, and threw her arms about her teacher's neck. 

"Miss Melville, if you'll give me one kiss, I'll never be an old womanagain, if I live as long as Methuselah!"

Miss Melville kissed her, and whispered one or two little loving words ofencouragement, such as nobody but Miss Melville knew how to say. But Gypsynever told what they were. 

"I believe there's a bolt left out of me somewhere, " she said, as theyleft the school-house together; "what do you suppose it is?"

"It is the strong, iron bolt, '_stop and think_, ' Gypsy. "

"Um--yes--perhaps it is, " said Gypsy, and walked slowly home. 

CHAPTER IV

GYPSY HAS A DREAM

"Come, Tom--do. "

"Do what?"

"You know as well as I do. "

"What did you observe?"

_"Tom Breynton!"_

"That's my name. "

"Will you, or will you not, come down to the pond and have a row?"

"Let's hear you tease a little. "

"Catch me! If you won't come for a civil request, I won't tease for it. "

"Very good, " said Tom, laying aside his Euclid; "I like your spunk. Ratherthink I'll go. "

Tom tossed on his cap and was ready. Gypsy hurried away to array herselfin the complication of garments necessary to the feminine adventurer, ifshe so much as crosses the yard; a continual mystery of Providence, wasthis little necessity to Gypsy, and one against which she lived in a stateof incessant rebellion. It was provoking enough to stand there in herroom, tugging and hurrying till she was red in the face, over a pair ofutterly heartless and unimpressible rubbers, that absolutely refused toslip over the heel of her boot, and to see Tom through the window, withhis hands in his pocket, ready, waiting, and impatient, alternatelywhistling and calling for her. 

"I never _did_!" said Gypsy, in no very gentle tone. 

"Hur--ry up!" called Tom, coolly. 

"These old rubbers!" said Gypsy. 

"What's the matter?" asked her mother, stopping at the door. 

"It's enough to try the patience of a saint!" said Gypsy, emphatically, holding out her foot. 

"Perhaps I can help you, " said Mrs. Breynton, stooping down. "Why, Gypsy!your boots are wet through; of course the rubbers won't go on. "

"I didn't suppose that would make any difference, " said Gypsy, lookingrather foolish. "I got them wet this morning, down at the swamp. I thoughtthey were dry, though: I sat with my feet in the oven until Patty drove meoff. She said I was in the bread. "

"You will have to put on your best boots, " said her mother. 

"Oh, Tom!" called Gypsy, in despair, as the shrillest of all shrillwhistles came up through the window. "Everything's in a jumble! I'll bethere as soon as I can. "

She changed her boots, tossed on her turban, whisked on her sack, andbegan to fasten it with a jerk, when off came the button at the throat, and rolled maliciously quite out of sight under the bed. 

"There!" said Gypsy. 

"Can't wait!" shouted Tom. 

"I mended that sack, " said Gypsy, "only yesterday afternoon. I call it toobad, when a body's trying to keep their things in order, and do up alltheir mending, that things have to act so!"

"I think you have been trying to be orderly, " said her mother, helping herto pin the offending sack about the throat, for there was no time now torestore the wandering button. "I have noticed a great improvement in you;but there's one thing wanting yet, that would have kept the button in itsplace, and had the boots properly taken off and dried at the right time. "

"What's that?" asked Gypsy, in a great hurry to go. 

"A little more _thoroughness_, Gypsy. "

This bit of a lesson, like most of Mrs. Breynton's moral teachings, wasenforced with a little soft kiss on Gypsy's forehead, and a smile that wasas unlike a sermon as smile could be. 

Gypsy gave two thoughts to it, while she jumped down stairs three steps ata time; then, it must be confessed, she forgot it entirely, in the sightof Tom coolly walking off down the lane without her. But words that Mrs. Breynton said with a kiss did not slip away from Gypsy's memory "for goodan a', " as easily as that. She had her own little places and times ofprivate meditation, when such things came up to her like faithful angels, that are always ready to speak, if you give them the chance. 

Tom was still in sight, among the hazel-nut bushes and budding grape-vinesof the lane, and Gypsy ran swiftly after him. She was fleet of foot as ayoung gazelle, and soon overtook him. She had just stopped, panting, byhis side, and was proceeding to make some remarks which she thought hisconduct richly deserved, when the sound of some little trotting feetbehind them attracted their attention. 

"Why, Winnie Breynton!" said Gypsy. 

"Where are you going?" asked Tom, turning round. 

"Oh, nowheres in particular, " said Winnie, with an absent air. 

"Well, you may just turn round and go there, then, " said Tom. "We don'twant any little boys with us this afternoon. "

"_Little boys!_" said Winnie, with a terrible look; "I'm five years old, sir. I can button my own jacket, and I've got a snowshovel!"

Tom walked rapidly on, and Gypsy with him. A moment's reflection seemed toconvince Winnie that his company was not wanted, and he disappeared amongthe hazel nut bushes. 

Gypsy and Tom were fast walkers, and they reached the pond in amarvellously short time. This pond was about a half-mile from the house, just at the foot of a hill which went by the name of Kleiner Berg--aGerman word meaning little mountain. There were many of these elevationsall along the valley in which Yorkbury was situated. They seemed to be asort of stepping-stones to the great, snow-crowned mountains, that toweredsharply beyond. The pond that nestled in among the trees at the foot ofthe Kleiner Berg was called the Kleiner Berg Basin. It was a beautifulsheet of water, small and still and sheltered, and a great resort ofpleasure-seekers because of the clouds of white and golden lilies thatfloated over it in the hot summer months. Mr. Breynton owned a boat there, which was kept locked to a tiny wharf under the trees, and was very oftenused by the children, although Tom declared it was no better to fish inthan a wash-tub; as a Vermont boy, used to the trout-brooks up among themountains, would be likely to think. 

"What's that?" asked Gypsy, as they neared the wharf. 

"Looks as much like a little green monkey as anything, " said Tom, making atube of his hands to look through. "It's in the boat, whatever it is. "

"It's a green-and-white gingham monkey, " said Gypsy, suddenly, "with abelt, and brown pants, and a cap on wrong side before. "

"The little----, he may just walk home anyhow, " observed Tom, in hisautocratic style. "He ought to be taught better than to come where olderpeople are, especially if they don't want him. "

"I suppose he likes to have a boat-ride as well as we do, " suggestedGypsy. 

"Winthrop!" called Tom, severely. 

Winnie's chin was on his little fat hand, and Winnie's eyes were fixedupon the water, and Winnie was altogether too deeply absorbed inmeditation to deign a reply. 

"Winnie, where did you come from?"

"Oh!" said Winnie, looking up, carelessly; "that you?"

"How did you get down here, I'd like to know?" said Gypsy. 

Winnie regarded her impressively, as if to signify that his principles ofaction were his own until they were made public, and when they were madepublic she might have them. 

"You may just get out of that boat, " said Tom, rather crossly for him. Winnie hinted, as if it were quite an accidental remark, that he had nointention of doing so. He furthermore observed that he would be happy totake them to row. "Father said whoever took the boat first was to haveit. "

Tom replied by taking him up in one hand, twisting him over his shoulder, and landing him upon the grass. At this Winnie, as characteristic in hiswrath as in his dignity, threw himself flat, and began to scream after hisusual musical fashion. 

"It's too bad!" said Gypsy. "Let him go, Tom--do. "

"He should have stayed where he was told to, " argued Tom, who, like mostboys of his age, had a sufficiently just estimate of the importance of hisown authority, and who would sometimes do a very selfish thing under theimpression that it was his duty to family and state, as an order-lovingindividual and citizen. 

"I know it isn't so pleasant to have him, " said Gypsy, "but it does makehim so dreadfully happy. "

That was the best of Gypsy;--she was as generous a child as poor, fallenchildren of Adam are apt to be; as quick to do right as she was to dowrong, and much given to this fancy of seeing people "dreadfully happy. " Ihave said that people loved Gypsy. I am inclined to think that herein laythe secret of it. 

Then Gypsy never "preached. " If she happened to be right, and anotherperson wrong, she never put on superior airs, and tried to patronize theminto becoming as good as she was. She made her suggestions in such astraightforward, matter-of-fact way, as if of course you thought so too, and she was only agreeing with you; and was apt to make them so merrilywithal, that there was no resisting her. 

Therefore Tom, while pretending to carry his point, really yielded to theinfluence of Gypsy's kind feeling, in saying, --

"On the whole, Winnie, I've come to the conclusion to take you, oncondition that you always do as I tell you in future. And if you don'tstop crying this minute, you sha'n't go. "

This rather ungracious consent was sufficient to dry Winnie's tears andsilence Winnie's lungs, and the three seated themselves in the littleboat, and started off in high spirits. It was a light, pretty boat, painted in bright colors, and christened _The Dipper_, it being anappropriate and respectful title for a boat on the Kleiner Berg _Basin_. Moreover, the air was as sweet as a May-flower, and as warm as sunshine;there was a soft, blue sky with clouds of silver like stately shipssailing over it, and such a shimmering, bright photograph of it in thewater; then Tom was so pleasant, and rowed so fast, and let Gypsy help, and she could keep time with him, and the spray dashed up like silver-dustabout the oars, and the bees were humming among the buds on the trees, andthe blue dragon-flies, that skipped from ripple to ripple, seemed to behaving such a holiday. Altogether, Gypsy felt like saying, with famouslittle Prudy, --

"Oh, I'm so glad there happened to be a world, and God made me!"

After a while Tom laid down his oars, and they floated idly back and forthamong the lily-stems and the soft, purple shadows of the maple-boughs, from which the perfumed scarlet blossoms dropped like coral into thewater. Tom took off his cap, and leaned lazily against the side of theboat; Winnie, interested in making a series of remarkable faces at himselfin the water, for a wonder sat still, and Gypsy lay down across two seats, with her face turned up watching the sky. It was very pleasant, and no oneseemed inclined to talk. 

"I wish I were a cloud, " said Gypsy, suddenly, after a long silence. "Alittle white cloud, with a silver fringe, and not have anything to do butfloat round all day in the sunshine, --no lessons nor torn dresses norhateful old sewing to do. "

"S'posin' it thunder-stormed, " suggested Winnie. "You might get striked. "

"That would be fun, " said Gypsy, laughing. "I always wanted to see wherethe lightning came from. "

"Supposing there came a wind, and blew you away, " suggested Tom, sleepily. 

"I never thought of that, " said Gypsy. "I guess I'd rather do the sewing. "

Presently a little scarlet maple-blossom floated out on the wind, anddropped right into Gypsy's mouth (which most unpoetically happened to beopen). 

"Just think, " said Gypsy, whose thoughts seemed to have taken ametaphysical turn, "of being a little red flower, that dies and drops intothe water, and there's never any fruit nor anything, --I wonder what it wasmade for. "

"Perhaps just to make you ask that question, " answered Tom; and there wasa great deal more in the answer than Tom himself supposed. This was everysolitary word that was said on that boat-ride. A little is so much betterthan much, sometimes, and goes a great deal further. 

It seemed to Gypsy the pleasantest boat-ride she had ever taken; but Tombecame tired of it before she did, and went up to the house, carryingWinnie with him. Gypsy stayed a little while to row by herself. 

"Be sure you lock the boat when you come up, " called Tom, in starting. 

"Oh yes, " said Gypsy, "I always do. "

"Did you bring up the oars?" asked Tom, at supper. 

"Yes, they're in the barn. I do sometimes remember things, Mr. Tom. "

"Did you----, " began Tom, again. 

But Winnie just then upset the entire contents of his silver mug of milkexactly into Tom's lap, and as this was the fourth time the younggentleman had done that very thing, within three days, Tom's sentence wasbroken off for another of a more agitated nature. 

That night Tom had a dream. 

He thought the house was a haunted castle--(he had, I am sorry to say, been reading novels in study hours), and that the ghost of old BaronSomebody who had defrauded the beautiful Lady Somebody-else, of KleinerBerg Basin and the Dipper, in which it was supposed Mrs. Surly hadsecreted a blind kitten, which it was somehow or other imperativelynecessary should be drowned, for the well-being of the beautiful andunfortunate heiress, --that the ghost of this atrocious Baron was goingdown stairs, with white silk stockings on his feet and a tin pan on hishead. 

At this crisis Tom awoke, with a jump, and heard, or thought he heard, aslight creaking noise in the entry. Winnie's cat, of course; or the windrattling the blinds;--nevertheless, Tom went to his door, and looked out. He was exceedingly sleepy, and the entry was exceedingly dark, and, thoughhe had not a breath of faith in ghosts, not he, --was there ever a boy whohad?--and though he considered such persons, as had, as candidates for theState Idiot Asylum, yet it must be confessed that even Tom was possessedof an imagination, and this imagination certainly, for an instant, deludedhim into the belief that a dim figure was flitting down stairs. 

"Who's there?" said Tom, rather faintly. 

There was no reply. A curious sound, like the lifting of a distant latchby phantom fingers, fell upon his ear, --then all was still. 

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Tom. Nevertheless, Tom went to the head of thestairs, and looked down; went to the foot of the stairs, and lookedaround. The doors were all closed as they had been left for the night. Nothing was to be seen; nothing was to be heard. 

"Curious mental delusions one will have when one is sleepy, " said Tom, andwent back to bed, where, the reader is confidentially informed, he lay forfifteen entire minutes with his eyes wide open, speculating on theproportion of authenticated ghost-stories;--to be sure, there had beensome; it was, perhaps, foolish to deny as much as that. 

After which, he slept the rest of the night as soundly as young people ofsixteen, who are well and happy, are apt to sleep. 

That night, also, Gypsy had a dream. 

She dreamed that Miss Melville sailed in through the window on an oar, which she paddled through the air with a parasol, and told her that her(Gypsy's) father had been hung upon a lamp-post by Senator Sumner, foradvocating the coercion of the seceded States, and that Tom had set Winnieafloat on the Kleiner Berg Basin, in a milk-pitcher. Winnie had tippedover, and was in imminent danger of drowning, if indeed he were not pasthope already, and Tom sat up in the maple-tree, laughing at him. 

Her mother appeared to have enlisted in the Union army, and, her fatherbeing detained in that characteristic manner by Mr. Sumner, there wasevidently nothing to be done but for Gypsy to go to Winnie's relief. Thisshe hastened to do with all possible speed. She dressed herself under aremarkable sense of not being able to find any buttons, and of getting allher sleeves upon the wrong arm. She put on her rubber-boots, because ittook so long to lace up her boots. Her stockings she wore upon her arms. The reason appeared to be, that she might not get her hands wet in pullingWinnie out. She stopped to put on her sack, her turban, and her blue veil. She also spent considerable time in commendable efforts to pin on a lacecollar which utterly refused to be pinned, and to fasten at her throat avelvet bow that kept turning into a little green snake, and twisting roundher fingers. 

When at length she was fairly ready, she left the house softly, under theimpression that Tom (who appeared to have the remarkable capacity of beingin the house and down in the maple-trees at one and the same time) wouldstop her if he heard her. 

She ran down the lane and over the fields and into the woods, where theKleiner Berg rose darkly in front of her; so, at last, to the Basin, whichrippled and washed on its shore, and tossed up at her feet--_an emptymilk-pitcher_!

A horrible fear seized her. She had come too late. Winnie was drowned. Itwas all owing to that lace collar. 

She sprang into the boat; she floated away; she peered down into the darkwater. But Tom laughed in the maple-tree; and there was no sign nor soundof Winnie. 

She cried out with a loud cry, and awoke. She lifted up her head, andsaw----

CHAPTER V

WHAT SHE SAW

A great, solemn stretch of sky, alive with stars. 

A sheet of silent water. 

A long line of silent hills. 

_She had acted out her dream!_ When the truth came to Gypsy, she sat for amoment like one stunned. The terrible sense of awakening in a desolateplace, at midnight, and alone, instead of in a safe and quiet bed, withbolted doors, and friends within the slightest call, might well alarm anolder and stouter heart than Gypsy's. The consciousness of having wanderedshe did not know whither, she did not know how, in the helplessness ofsleep, into a place where her voice could reach no human ear, was initself enough to freeze her where she sat, with hands locked, and wide, frightened eyes, staring into the darkness. 

After a few moments she stirred, shivered a little, and looked about her. 

It was the Basin, surely. There were the maples, there was the KleinerBerg rolling up, soft and shadowy, among its pines. There were themountains, towering and sharp--terrible shadows against the sky. Here, too, was the Dipper beneath her, swaying idly back and forth upon thewater. She remembered, with a little cry of joy, that the boat was alwayslocked; she could not have stirred from the shore; it would be but thework of a moment to jump upon the wharf, then back swiftly through thefields to the house. 

She looked back. The wharf was not in sight. A dark distance lay betweenher and it. The beds of lily-leaves, and the dropping blossoms of themaples were about her on every side. She had drifted half across the pond. 

She understood it all in a moment--_she had not locked the boat thatafternoon_. 

What was to be done? The oars were half a mile away, in the barn at home. There was not so much as a branch floating within reach on the water. Shetried to pull up the board seats of the boat, under the impression thatshe could, by degrees, paddle herself ashore with one of them. But theywere nailed tightly in their places, and she could not stir them. Evidently, there was nothing to be done. 

Perhaps the boat would drift ashore somewhere; she could land anywhere;even on the steep Kleiner Berg side she could easily have found footing;she was well used to climbing its narrow ledges, and knew every crack andcrevice and projection where a step could be taken. But, no; the boat wasnot going to drift ashore. It had stopped in a tangle of lily-leaves, farout in the water, and there was not a breath of wind to stir it. If thewater had not been deep she could have waded ashore; but her practised eartold her, from the sound of the little waves against her hand, that wadingwas not to be thought of. To be sure, Gypsy could swim; but a walk of halfa mile in drenched clothes was hardly preferable to sitting still in a dryboat, to say nothing of the inconvenience of swimming in crinoline, and ona dark night. 

No, there was nothing to be done but to sit still till morning. 

Having come to this conclusion, Gypsy gave another little shiver, andslipped down into the bottom of the boat, thinking she might lie with herhead under the stern-seat, and thus be somewhat shielded from the chillyair. In turning up her sack-collar, to protect her throat, she touchedsomething soft, which proved to be the lace collar. This led her toexamine her dress. She now noticed for the first time that one stockingwas drawn up over her hand, --the other she had probably lost on theway, --and that she had put her bare feet into rubber-boots. The lacecollar was fastened by a bit of green chenille she sometimes wore at herthroat, and which had doubtless been the snake of her dream. 

Lonely, frightened, and cold as she was, Gypsy's sense of the ludicrousovercame her at that, and she broke into a little laugh. That laugh seemedto drive away the mystery and terror of her situation, in spite of thecurious sound it had in echoing over the lonely water; and Gypsy setherself to work with her usual good sense to see how matters stood. 

"In the first place, " she reasoned, talking half aloud for the sake of thecompany of her own voice, "I've had a fit of what the dictionary callssomnambulism, I suppose. I eat too much pop-corn after supper, and that'sthe whole of it, --it always makes me dream, --only I never was goose enoughto get out of bed before, and I rather think it'll be some time before Ido again. I came down stairs softly, and out of the back door. Nobodyheard me, and of course nobody will hear me till morning, and I'm in apretty fix. If I hadn't forgotten to lock the boat I should be back in bedby this time. Oh dear! I wish I were. However, I'm too large to tip myselfover and get drowned, and I couldn't get hurt any other way; and there'snothing to be afraid of if I do have to stay here till morning, exceptsore throat, so there's no great harm done. The worst of it is, that oldTom! Won't he laugh at me about the boat! I never expect to hear the endof it. Then when they go to my room and find me gone, in the morning, they'll be frightened. I'm rather sorry for that. I wish I knew what timeit is. "

Just then the distant church-clock struck two. Gypsy held her breath, andlistened to it. It had a singular, solemn sound. She had never heard theclock strike two in the morning but once before in her life. That was oncewhen she was very small, when her father was dangerously sick, and thecoming of the doctor had wakened her. She had always somehow associatedthe hour with mysterious flickering lights, and anxious whispers andsoftened steps, and a dread as terrible as it was undefined. Now, out herein this desolate place, where the birds were asleep in their nests, andthe winds quiet among the mountain-tops, and the very frogs tired of theirchanting, --herself the only waking thing, --these two far, deep-tonedsyllables seemed like a human voice. Like the voice, Gypsy fancied, ofsome one imprisoned for years in the belfry, and crying to get out. 

Two o'clock. Three--four--five--six. At about six they would begin to missher; her mother always called her, then, to get up. Four hours. 

"Hum, --well, " said Gypsy, drawing her sack-collar closer, "pretty longtime to sit out in a boat and shiver. It might be worse, though. " Justthen her foot struck something soft under the seat. She pulled it out, andfound it to be an old coat of Tom's, which he sometimes used for boating. Fortunately it was not wet, for the boat was new, and did not leak. Shewrapped it closely around her shoulders, curled herself up snugly in thestern, and presently pronounced herself "as warm as toast, and ascomfortable as an oyster. "

Then she began to look about her. All around and underneath her lay theblack, still water, --so black that the maple-branches cast no shadow onit. About and above her rose the mountains, grim and mute, and watching, as they had watched for ages, and would watch for ages still, all the longnight through. Overhead, the stars glittered and throbbed, and shot in andout of ragged clouds. Far up in the great forests, that climbed themountain-sides, the wind was muttering like an angry voice. 

Somehow it made Gypsy sit very still. She thought, if she were a poet, shewould write some verses just then; indeed, if she had had a pencil, I amnot sure but she would have, as it was. 

Then some other thoughts came to Gypsy. She wondered why, of all places, she chanced to come to the Basin in her dream. She might have gone to thesaw-mill, and been caught and whirred to death in the machinery. She mighthave gone to the bridge over the river, and thrown herself off, notknowing what she did. Or, what if the pond had been a river, and she werenow floating away, helpless, out of reach of any who came to save her, tosome far-off dam where the water roared and splashed on cruel rocks. Orshe might, in her dream, have tipped over the boat where the water wasdeep, and been unable to swim, encumbered by her clothing. Then she mighthave been such a girl as Sarah Rowe, who would have suffered agonies offright at waking to find herself in such a place. But she had been led tothe quiet, familiar Basin, and no harm had come to her, and she had goodstrong nerves, and lost all her fear in five minutes, so that themischance would end only in an exciting adventure, which would give hersomething to talk about as long as she lived. 

Well; she was sure she was very thankful to--whom? and Gypsy bowed herhead a little at the question, and she sat a moment very still. 

Then she had other thoughts. She looked up at the shadowed mountains, andthought how year after year, summer and winter, day and night, thoseterrible masses of rock had cleaved together, and stood still, and caughtthe rains and the snows and vapors, the golden crowns of sunsets andsunrisings, the cooling winds and mellow moonlights, and done all theirwork of beauty and of use, and done it aright. _"Not one faileth. "_ Noavalanche had thundered down their sides, destroying such happy homes ashers. No volcanic fires had torn them into seething lava. No beetlingprecipice, of which she ever heard, had fallen and crushed so much as thesheep feeding in the valleys. To the power of the hills as to the power ofthe seas, Someone had said, Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther. 

And the Hand that could uphold a mountain in its place, was the Hand thathad guided her--one little foolish, helpless girl, out of millions andmillions of creatures for whom He was caring--in the wanderings of anuneasy sleep that night. 

There was a great awe and a great joy in this thought; but sharp upon itcame another, as a pleasure is followed by a sudden pain, --a thought thatcame all unbidden, and talked with Gypsy, and would not go away. It was, that she had gone to bed that night without a prayer. She was tired andsleepy, and the lamp went out, and so, --and so, --well, she didn't knowexactly how it came about. 

Gypsy's bowed head fell into her hands, and there, crouched in the lonelyboat, under the lonely sky, she put this thought into a few whisperedwords, and I know there was One to hear it. 

Other thoughts had Gypsy after this; but they were those she could nothave put into words. For three of those solemn, human syllables hadsounded from the distant clock, and far over the mountain-tops the sweetsummer dawn was coming. Gypsy had never seen the sun rise. She had seen, to be sure, many times, the late, winter painting of crimson and gold inthe East, which unfolded itself before her window, and chased away herdreams. But she had never watched that slow, mysterious change frommidnight to morning, which is the only spectacle that can properly becalled a sunrise. 

There was something in Gypsy that made her sit like a statue there, wrapped in Tom's old coat, her face upturned, and her very breath held in, as the heavy shadows softened and melted, and the stars began to dim in apale, gray light, that fell and folded in the earth like a mist; as theclouds, that floated faintly over the mountains, blushed pink from thetouch of an unseen sun; as the pink deepened into crimson, and the crimsonburned to fire, and the outlines of the mountains were cut in gold; as thegold broadened and brightened, and stole over the ragged peaks, and shotdown among the forests, and filtered through the maple-leaves, and chasedthe purple shadows far down among the valleys; as the birds twittered inunseen nests, and the crickets chirped in the meadows, and the dews felland sparkled from nodding grasses, and "all the world grew green again. "

Gypsy thought it was worth an ugly dream and a little fright, to see sucha sight. She wondered if those old pictures of the great masters far awayover the sea, of which she had heard so much, were anything like it. Shealso had a faint, flitting notion that, in a world where there weresunrises every day, it was very strange people should ever be cross, andtear their dresses, and forget to lock boats. It seemed as if they oughtto know better. 

Just then Gypsy fell asleep, with her head on the bottom of the boat; andthe next she knew it was broad day, and a dear, familiar voice, fromsomewhere, was calling, --

"Gypsy!--Why, Gypsy!"

"How do you do?" said Gypsy, sleepily, sitting up straight. 

Tom was standing on the shore. He did not say another word. He jumped intoan old mud-scull, that lay floating among the bushes, and paddled up toher before she was wide enough awake to speak. 

"Why, Gypsy Breynton!"

"I've been walking in my sleep, " said Gypsy, with a little laugh; "I cameout here to save Winnie from upsetting in a milk-pitcher, and then I wokeup, and I _did_ forget to lock the boat, and I couldn't get ashore. "

"How long have you been here?" Tom was very pale. 

"Since a little before two. There was a splendid sunrise, only it wasrather cold, and I didn't know where I was at first, and I--well, I'm gladyou're come. "

"Put on my coat over that. Lean up against my arm--so. Don't try to talk, "said Tom, in a quick, business-like tone. But Tom was curiously pale. 

"Why, there's no harm done, Tom, dear, " said Gypsy, looking up into hisface. 

"I can't talk about it, Gypsy--I _can't_, I thought, I----"

Tom looked the other way to see the view, and did not finish his sentence. 

"You don't suppose she's going to be a somnambulist?" asked Mr. Breynton. This was the first time he had remembered to be worried over any ofGypsy's peculiarities all day. He had spent so much time in looking ather, and kissing her, and wiping his spectacles. 

"No, indeed, " said her mother; "it was nothing in the world butpopped-corn. The child will never have another such turn, I'll venture. "

And she never did. 

It is needless to say that nobody scolded Gypsy for forgetting to lock theboat. She was likely enough to remember the incident. She had, perhaps, received a severe punishment for so slight a negligence, but the readermay rest assured that the boat was always locked thereafter when Gypsy hadanything to do with it. 

CHAPTER VI

UP IN THE APPLE TREE

"Gypsy! Gypsy!"

"What's wanted?"

"Where are you?"

"Here. "

"I don't know where 'here' is. "

"Well, you'll find out after a while. "

Winnie trotted along down the garden-path, and across the brook. "Here"proved to be the great golden-russet tree. High up on a gnarled oldbranch, there was a little flutter of a crimson and white gingham dress, and a merry face peeping down through the dainty pink blossoms thatblushed all over the tree. It looked so pretty, framed in by the brightcolor and glistening sunlight, and it seemed to fit in so exactly with thefragrance and the soft, dropping petals, and the chirping of theblue-birds overhead, that I doubt if even Mrs. Surly would have had theheart to say, as Mrs. Surly was much in the habit of saying, --

"A young lady, twelve years old, climbing an apple-tree! Laws a massy! Ipity your ma--what a sight of trainin'clock she must ha' wasted on you!"

"It looks nice up there, " said Winnie, admiringly, looking up with hismouth open; "I'm acomin'clock up. "

"Very well, " said Gypsy. 

Winnie assailed a low-hanging bough, and crawled half way up, where hestopped. 

"Why don't you come?" said Gypsy. 

"Oh, I--well, I think I like it better down here. You can see the grass, and things. There's a black grasshopper here, too. "

"What do you want, anyway?" asked Gypsy, taking a few spasmodic stitcheson a long, white seam; "I'm busy. I can't talk to little boys when I'msewing. "

"Oh, I guess I don't want anythin'clock, very much, " said Winnie, foldinghis arms composedly, as if he had seated himself for the day; "I'm fiveyears old. "

Down went Gypsy's work, and a whole handful of pink and white blossomscame fluttering into Winnie's eyes. 

"How am I going to sew?" said Gypsy, despairingly; "you're so exactly inthe right place to be hit. I don't believe Mrs. Surly herself could helpsnowballing you. "

"Mrs. Surly snowball! Why, I never saw her. Wouldn't it be just funny?"

"Winnie Breynton, _will_ you please to go away?"

"I say, Gypsy, --if you cut off a grasshopper's wings, and frow him in amilk-pan, what would he do?" remarked Winnie, inclining to metaphysics, aswas Winnie's custom when he wasn't wanted. Gypsy took several severestitches, and made no answer. 

"Gypsy--if somebody builded a fire inside of me and made steam, couldn't Idraw a train of cars?"

"Look here--Gyp. , when a cat eats up a mouse----"

Winnie forgot what he was aiming at, just there, coughed, and began again. 

"Samson could have drawed a train of cars, anyway. "

"Oh, Winnie Breynton!"

"Well, if he had a steam-leg, he'd be jest as good as anengine--_wouldn't_ I like to seen him!" Just then a branch struck Winnie'shead with decidedly more emphasis than the handful of blossoms, and Winnieslid to the ground, and remarked, with dignity, that he was sorry hecouldn't stay longer. He would come again another day. About half way upthe walk, he stopped, and turned leisurely round. 

"Oh--Gypsy! Mother want's to know where's the key of the china-closet shelet you have. She's in a great hurry. That's what I come down for; Is'posed there was something or nuther. "

"Why, Winnie Breynton! and you've been sitting there all this----"

"Where's the key?" interrupted Winnie, severely; "mother hadn't ought tobe kept waitin'clock. "

"It's up-stairs in--in, I guess in my slippers, " said Gypsy, stopping tothink. 

_"Slippers!"_

"Yes. I was afraid I should forget to put it up, so I put it in myslipper, because I should feel it, and remember it. Then I took off theslippers, and that was the last I thought of it. "

"It was very careless, " said Winnie, with a virtuous air. It wasnoticeable that he took good care to be out of hearing of Gypsy's reply. 

Gypsy returned to her seam, and the apple-blossoms, and to her own littlemeditations about the china-closet key; which, being of a private andsomewhat humiliating nature, are not given to the public. 

The apple-tree stood in one corner of a very pleasant garden. Mr. Breyntonhad a great fancy for working over his trees and flowers, and, if he hadnot been a publisher and bookseller, might have made a very successfullandscape-gardener. Poor health had driven him out of the professions, andthe tastes of a scholar drove him away from out-door life; he hadcompromised the matter by that book-store down opposite the post-office. The literature of a Vermont town is not of the most world-stirring nature, and it did occur to him, occasionally, that business was rather dull, buthis wife loved the old home, the children were comfortable and happy, andhe himself, he thought, was getting rather old to start out on any newventure elsewhere; so Yorkbury seemed likely to be the family nest forlife. 

It was the same methodical kind-heartedness that made him at once sothoughtful and tender a father, and yet so habitually worried by thechildren's little failings, that gave him his taste for beautiful flowersand shrubbery, and his skill in cultivating them. This garden was his petenterprise. It was gracefully laid out with winding walks, evergreens, fruit-trees and flower-beds; not in stiff patterns, but with a delightfulstudied negligence, such as that with which an artist would group thefigures on a landscape. Rocks and vines and wild flowers were scatteredover the garden very much as they would be found in the fields; statelyroses and dahlias, delicate heliotrope and aristocratic fuchsias, wouldgrow, side by side, with daisies and buttercups. But, best of all, Gypsyliked the corner where the golden russet stood. A bit of a brook ranacross it, which had been caught in a frolic one day, as it went singingaway to the meadows, and dammed up and paved down into a tiny pond. 

The short-tufted grass swept over its edge like a fringe, and in theirseason slender hair-bells bent over, casting little blue shadows into thewater; the apple-boughs, too, hung over it, and flung down their showersof pearls and rubies, when the wind was high. Moreover, there was astatue. This statue was Gypsy's pride and delight. It was Aladdin'sPalace, the Tuilleries, Versailles, and the Alhambra, all in one. The onlyfault to be found with it was that it was not marble. It was a species ofweather-proof composition, but very finely carved, and much valued by Mr. Breynton. It was a pretty thing--a water-nymph rising from an unfoldedlily, with both hands parting her long hair from a wondering face, that, pleased with its own beauty, was bent to watch its reflection in thewater. 

Altogether, the spot was so bewitching, that it is little wonder Gypsy'swork kept dropping into her lap, and her eyes wandering away somewhereinto dreamland. 

One of those endless seams on a white skirt that you have torn from theplacket to the hem, is not a very attractive sight, if you have it tomend, and don't happen to like to sew any better than Gypsy did. 

She seemed fated to be interrupted in her convulsive attempts at"run-and-back stitching. " Winnie was hardly in the house, before SarahRowe came out in the garden to hunt her up. 

"Oh, dear, " said Gypsy, as Sarah's face appeared under the apple-boughs;"I'm not a bit glad to see you. "

"That's polite, " said Sarah, reddening; "I'll go home again. "

"Look, " said Gypsy, laughing; "just _see_ what I've got to mend, and Icame out here on purpose to get it done, so I could come over to yourhouse. You see I oughtn't to be glad to see you at all, but I amexceedingly. "

Sarah climbed up, and sat down beside her upon a long, swaying bough. 

"Now don't you speak a single word, " said Gypsy, with an industrious air, "till I get this done. "

"No, I won't, " said Sarah. "What do you have to sew for, Saturdayafternoons?"

"Why, it's my mending: mother wants me to do it Saturday morning, and ofcourse it's a great deal easier, because then you have all the afternoonto yourself, only I never seem to get time; I'm sure I don't know why. This morning I had my history topics to write. "

"Why, I wrote mine yesterday!"

"I meant to, but I forgot; Miss Melville said I musn't put it off anotherday. There! I wasn't going to talk. "

"Mother does my mending for me, " said Sarah. 

"She does! Well, I just wish my mother would. She says it wouldn't be goodfor me. "

"How did you tear such a great place, I'd like to know?"

"Put my foot right through it, " said Gypsy, disconsolately. "It washanging on a chair, and I just stepped in it and started to run, and downI went, --and here's the skirt. I was running after the cat. I'd put herunder my best hat, and she was spinning down stairs. You never sawanything so funny! I'm always doing such things, --I mean like the skirt. Ido declare! you mustn't talk. "

"I'm not, " said Sarah, laughing; "it's you that are talking. You haven'tsewed a stitch for five minutes, either. "

Gypsy sighed, and her needle began to fly savagely. There was a littlesilence. 

"You see, " said Gypsy, breaking it, "I'm trying to reform. "

"Reform?" said Sarah, with some vague ideas of Luther and Melancthon, andGypsy's wearing a wig and spectacles, and reading Cruden's "Concordance. "

"Yes, " nodded Gypsy, "reform. I never knew anybody need it as much as I. Inever do things anyway, and then I do them wrong, and then I forget allabout them. Mother says I'm improving. She says my room used to look likea perfect Babel, and now I keep the wardrobe door shut, and dust itout--sometimes. Then there's my mending. I came out here so's to be quietand _keep at it_. The poor dear woman is so afraid I won't learn to dothings in a lady-like way. It would be dreadful not to grow up a lady, wouldn't it?"

"Dreadful!" said Sarah; "only I wish you'd hurry and get through, so wecan go down to the swamp and sail. Couldn't you take a little biggerstitches?"

"No, " said Gypsy, resolutely; "I should have to rip it all out. I'm goingto do it right, if it takes me all day. "

Gypsy began to sew with a will, and Sarah, finding it was for her owninterest in the end, stopped talking; so the fearful seam was soon neatlyfinished, the work folded up, and the thimble and scissors put awaycarefully in the little green reticule. 

"I lose so many thimbles, --you don't know!" observed Gypsy, by way ofcomment. "I'm going to see if I can't keep this one three months. "

"Now let's go, " said Sarah. 

"In a minute; I must carry my work up first. I'm going to jump off--it'sreal fun. You see if I don't go as far as that dandelion. "

So Gypsy sprang from the tree, carrying a shower of blossoms with her. 

"Oh, look out for the statue!" cried Sarah. 

The warning came too late. Gypsy fell short of her mark, hit thewater-nymph heavily, and it fell with a crash into the water, where thepaved bottom was hard as rock. 

"Just see what you've done!" said Sarah, who had not a capacity for makingcomforting remarks. "What do you suppose your father will say?"

Gypsy stood aghast. The water gurgled over the fallen statue, whosepretty, upraised hands were snapped at the wrist, and the wondering facecrushed in. There was a moment's silence. 

"Don't you tell!" said Sarah at length; "nobody saw it fall, and they'llnever think you did it. You just seem surprised, and keep still about it. "

Gypsy flushed to her forehead. 

"Why, Sarah Rowe! how can you say such a thing? I wouldn't tell a lie foranything in this world!"

"It wouldn't be a lie!" said Sarah, looking ashamed and provoked. "Youneedn't say you didn't do it. "

"It would be a lie!" said Gypsy, decidedly. "He'd ask if anybody knew, --Iwouldn't be so mean, even if I knew he couldn't find out. I am going totell him this minute. "

Gypsy started off, with her cheeks still very red, up the garden paths anddown the road, and Sarah followed slowly. Gypsy's sense of honor hadreceived too great a shock for her to take pleasure just then in Sarah'scompany, and Sarah had an uneasy sense of having lowered herself in herfriend's eyes, so the two girls separated for the afternoon. 

It was about a mile to Mr. Breynton's store. The afternoon was warm forthe season, and the road dusty; but Gypsy ran nearly all the way. She wastoo much troubled about the accident to think of anything else, and in asmuch haste to tell her father as some children would have been to concealit from him. 

Old Mr. Simms, the clerk, looked up over his spectacles in mildastonishment, as Gypsy entered the store flushed, and panting, and pretty. To Mr. Simms, who had no children of his own, and only a deaf wife and alame dog at home for company, Gypsy was always pretty, always "such awonderful development for a young person, " and always just about right inwhatever she did. 

"Why, good afternoon, Miss Gypsy, " said Mr. Simms; "I'm surprised to seeyou such a warm day--very much surprised. But you always were a remarkableyoung lady. "

"Yes, " panted Gypsy; "where's father, Mr. Simms?"

"He's up in the printing-room just now, talking with the foreman. Can Icarry any message for you, Miss Gypsy?"

"Oh, Mr. Simms, " said Gypsy, confidentially, "I've done the most dreadfulthing!"

"Dear me! I don't see how that is possible, " said Mr. Simms, taking hisspectacles off nervously, and putting them on again. 

"I have, " said Gypsy; "I've broken the water-nymph!"

"Is that all?" asked Mr. Simms, looking relieved; "why, how did ithappen?"

"I jumped on it. "

_"Jumped on it!"_

"Yes; I'm sure I don't know what father'll say. "

"Well, I _must_ say you are a wonderful young person, " said Mr. Simms, proudly. "I'm sure I'm glad that's all. Don't you fret, my dear. Yourfather won't care much about water-nymphs, when he has such a daughter. "

"But he will, " said Gypsy, who regarded Mr. Simm's compliments only as atiresome interruption to conversation, and by no means as entitled to anyattention; "he will be very sorry, and I am going to tell him right off. Please, Mr. Simms, will you speak to him?"

"Remarkable development of veracity!" said Mr. Simms, as he bowed himselfaway in his polite, old-fashioned way, and disappeared up the stairwaythat led to the printing-rooms. It seemed to Gypsy, waiting there soimpatiently, as if her father would never come down. But come he did atlast, looking very much surprised to see her, and anxious to know if thehouse were on fire, or if Winnie were drowned. 

"No, " said Gypsy, "nothing has happened, --I mean nothing of that sort. It's only about me. I have something to tell you. "

"I think I will walk home with you, " said her father. "There isn't muchgoing on Saturday afternoons. Simms, you can lock up when you go home tosupper. I hope you haven't been giving your mother any trouble, or thrownyour ball into Mrs. Surly's windows again, " he added, nervously, as theypassed out of the door and up the street together. 

"No, sir, " said Gypsy, faintly; "it's worse than that. "

Mr. Breynton heaved a sigh, but said nothing. 

"I know you think I'm always up to mischief, and I don't suppose I'll everlearn to be a lady and know how not to break things, and I'm so sorry, butI didn't suppose there was any harm in jumping off an apple-tree, and thewater-nymph went over and perhaps if you sent me to school or somethingI'd learn better where they tie you down to a great board, " said Gypsy, talking very fast, and quite forgetting her punctuation. 

"The water-nymph!" echoed Mr. Breynton. 

"Yes, " said Gypsy, dolefully; "right over, head-first--into thepond--broken to smash!"

"Oh, Gypsy! that is too bad. "

"I know it, " interrupted Gypsy; "I know it was terriblycareless--terribly. Did you ever know anything so exactly like me? Theworst of it is, being sorry doesn't help the matter. I wish I could buyyou another. Won't you please to take my five dollars, and I'll earn somemore picking berries. "

"I don't want your money, my child, " said Mr. Breynton, looking troubledand puzzled. "I'm sorry the nymph is gone; but somehow you do seem to bedifferent from other girls. I didn't know young ladies ever jumped. "

Gypsy was silent. Her father and mother seemed to think differently aboutthese things. To her view, and she felt sure, to her mother's, the faultlay in the carelessness of not finding out whether the image was in herway. She could not see that she was doing anything wrong in going outalone into an apple-tree, and springing from a low bough, upon the softgrass. Very likely, when she was a grown-up young lady, with long dressesand hair done up behind, she shouldn't care anything about climbing trees. But that was another question. However, she had too much respect for herfather to say this. So she hung her head, feeling very humble and sorry, and wondering if Mr. Simms couldn't plaster the nymph together somehow, hewas always so ready to do things for her. 

"Well, " said her father, after a moment's thought, in which he had beenstruggling with a sense of disappointment at the destruction of hisstatue, that would have made a less kind-hearted man scold. 

"Well, it can't be helped; and as to the climbing trees, I suppose yourmother knows best. I am glad you came and told me, anyway--very glad. Youare a truthful child, Gypsy, in spite of your faults. "

"I couldn't bear to tell lies, " said Gypsy, brightening a little. 

It is possible this was another one of the reasons why people had such ahabit of loving Gypsy. What do you think?

CHAPTER VII

JUST LIKE GYPSY

One afternoon Gypsy was coming home from the post-office. It was a rareJune day. The great soft shadows fell and faded on the mountains, and theair was sweet with the breath of a hundred fields where crimson cloversnodded in the sleepy wind. It seemed to Gypsy that she had never seen suchmellow sunlight, or skies so pure and blue; that no birds ever sung suchsongs in the elm-trees, and never were butterflies so golden and brown andbeautiful as those which fluttered drowsily over the tiny roadsideclovers. The thought came to her like a little sudden heart-throb, thatthrilled her through and through, that this world was a very great world, and very beautiful, --it seemed so alive and happy, from the arch of theblazing sky down to the blossoms of the purple weeds that hid in thegrass. She wondered that she had never thought of it before. How manymillions of people were enjoying this wonderful day! What a great thing itwas to live in such a world, where everything was so beautiful and usefuland happy! The very fact that she was alive in it made her so glad. Shefelt as if she would like to go off on the rocks somewhere, and shout andjump and sing. 

As she walked slowly along past the stores and the crowded tenement-houses, swinging her little letter-basket on her arm, and dreaming away with hergreat brown eyes, as such young eyes will always dream upon a summer'sday, there suddenly struck upon that happy thought of hers a mournfulsound. 

It was a human groan. 

It grated on Gypsy's musing, as a file grates upon smooth marble; shestarted, and looked up. The sound came from an open window directly overher head. What could anybody be groaning about such a day as this? Gypsyfelt a momentary impatience with the mournful sound; then a suddencuriosity to know what it meant. A door happened to be open near her, andshe walked right in, without a second thought, as was the fashion in whichGypsy usually did things. A pair of steep stairs led up from the bit of anentry, and a quantity of children, whose faces and hands were decidedlythe worse for wear, were playing on them. 

"How do you do?" said Gypsy. The children stared. 

"Who lives here?" asked Gypsy, again. The children put their fingers intheir mouths. 

"Who is that groaning so?" persisted Gypsy, repressing a strong desire tobox their ears. The children crawled a little further up-stairs, andpeered at her from between their locks of shaggy hair, as if theyconsidered her a species of burglar. At this moment a side door opened, and a red-faced woman, who was wiping her hands on her apron, put her headout into the entry, and asked, in rather a surly tone, what was wanted. 

"Who is that groaning?" repeated Gypsy. 

"Oh, that's nobody but Grandmother Littlejohn, " said the woman, with alaugh, "she's always groanin'clock. "

"But what does she groan for?" insisted Gypsy, her curiosity nowisediminished to see a person who could be "always groanin'clock, " throughnot only one, but many, of such golden summer days. 

"Oh, I s'pose she's got reason enough, for the matter of that, " said thewoman, carelessly; "she's broke a bone, --though she do make a terriblefuss over it, and very onobligin'clock it is to the neighbors as has thelookin'clock after of her. "

"Broken a bone! Poor thing, I'm going right up to see her!" said Gypsy, whose compassion was rising fast. 

"Good luck to you!" said the woman, with a laugh Gypsy did not like verymuch. It only strengthened her resolution, however, and she ran up thenarrow stairs scattering the children right and left. 

Several other untidy-looking women opened doors and peered out at her asshe went by; but no one else spoke to her. Guided by the sound of thegroans, which came at regular intervals like long breaths, she went up asecond flight of stairs, more narrow and more dark than the first, andturned into a little low room, the door of which stood open. 

"Who's there!" called a fretful voice from inside. 

"I, " said Gypsy; "may I come in?"

"I don't know who you be, " said the voice, "but you may come 'long ef youwant to. "

Gypsy accepted the somewhat dubious invitation. The room was in saddisorder, and very dusty. An old yellow cat sat blinking at a sunbeam, andan old, yellow, wizened woman lay upon the bed. Her forehead was all drawnand knotted with pain, and her mouth looked just like her voice--fretfuland sharp. She turned her head slowly, as Gypsy entered, but otherwise shedid not alter her position; as if it were one which she could not changewithout pain. 

"Good afternoon, " said Gypsy, feeling a little embarrassed, and notknowing exactly what to say, now she was up there. 

"Good arternoon, " said Grandmother Littlejohn, with a groan. 

"I heard you groan out in the street, " said Gypsy, rushing to the point atonce; "I came up to see what was the matter. "

"Matter?" said the old woman sharply, "I fell down stairs and broke myankle, that's the matter, an'clock I wonder the whole town hain't heerd meholler, --I can't sleep day nor night with the pain, an'clock it's matterenough, I think. "

"I'm real sorry, " said Gypsy. 

Mrs. Littlejohn broke into a fresh spasm of groaning at this, and seemedto be in such suffering, that it made Gypsy turn pale to hear her. 

"Haven't you had a doctor?" she asked, compassionately. 

"Laws yes, " said the old woman. "Had a doctor! I guess I have, a youngfellar who said he was representative from somewhere from MedicalProfession, seems to me it war, but I never heerd on't, wharever it is, an'clock he with his whiskers only half growed, an'clock puttin'clock ofmy foot into a wooden box, an'clock murderin'clock of me--I gave him apiece of my mind, and he hain't come nigh me since, and I won't have himagin noways. "

"But they always splinter broken limbs, " said Gypsy. 

"Splinters?" cried the old woman; "I tell ye I fell down stairs! I didn'tget no splinters in. "

Gypsy concluded to suppress her surgical information. 

"Who takes care of you?" she asked, suddenly. 

"Nobody! _I_ don't want nobody takin'clock care of me when I ain't shut upin a box on the bed, an'clock now I am, the neighbors is shy enough oftroublin'clock themselves about me, an'clock talks of the work-house. I'llstarve fust!"

"Who gives you your dinners and suppers?" asked Gypsy, beginning to thinkGrandmother Littlejohn was a very ill-treated woman. 

"It's little enough I gets, " said the old woman, groaning afresh; "theybrings me up a cup of cold tea when they feels like it, and crusts ofbread, and I with no teeth to eat 'em. I hain't had a mouthful of dinnerthis day, and that's the truth, now!"

"No dinner, " cried Gypsy. "Why, how sorry I am for you! I'll go right homeand get you some, and tell my mother. She'll take care of you--she alwaysdoes take care of everybody. "

"You're a pretty little gal, " said Mrs. Littlejohn, with a sigh; "an'clockI hope you'll be rewarded for botherin'clock yourself about a poor oldwoman like me. Does your ma use white sugar? I like white sugar in mytea. "

"Oh yes, " said Gypsy, rather pleased than otherwise to be called a "prettylittle gal. " "Oh yes; we have a whole barrel full. You can have some justas well as not; I'll bring you down a pound or so, and I have five dollarsat home that you might have. What would you like to have me get for you?"

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Littlejohn; "what a angel of mercy to the poor andafflicted you be! I should like some fresh salmon and green peas, now, ifI could get 'em. "

"Very well, " said Gypsy; "I'll hurry home and see about it. "

Accordingly she left the old woman groaning out her thanks, and went downthe narrow stairs, and into the street. 

She ran all the way home, and rushed into the parlor where her mother wassitting quietly sewing. She looked up as the door burst open, and Gypsyswept in like a little hurricane, her turban hanging down her neck, herhair loose and flying about an eager face that was all on fire with itswarm crimson color and twinkling eyes. 

"Why Gypsy!"

"Oh, mother, such an old woman--such a poor old woman! groaning right outin the street--I mean, I was out in the street, and heard her groan up twoflights of the _crook_edest stairs, and she broke her ankle, and theneighbors won't give her anything to eat, unless she goes to thepoor-house and starves, and she hasn't had any dinner, and----"

"Wait a minute, Gypsy; what does all this mean?"

"Why, she fell down those horrid stairs and broke her ankle, and wantssome salmon and green peas, and I'm going to give her my five dollars, and----Oh, white sugar, some white sugar for her tea. I never heardanybody groan so, in all my life!"

Mrs. Breynton laid down her work, and laughed. 

"Why, mother!" said Gypsy, reddening, "I don't see what there is to laughat!"

"My dear Gypsy, you would laugh if you had heard your own story. The mostI can make out of it is, that a little girl who is so excited she hardlyknows what she is talking about, has seen an old woman who has beenbegging for fresh salmon. "

"And broken her ankle, and is starving, " began Gypsy. 

"Stop a minute, " interrupted Mrs. Breynton, gently. "Sit down and take offyour things, and when you get rested tell me the story quietly and slowly, and then we will see what is to be done for your old woman. "

Gypsy, very reluctantly, obeyed. It seemed to her incredible that any onecould be so quiet and composed as her mother was, when there was an oldwoman in town who had had no dinner. However, she sat still and fannedherself, and when she was rested, she managed to tell her story in asconnected and rational manner, and with as few comments and exclamationsof her own, as Gypsy was capable of getting along with, in any narration. 

"Very well, " said her mother, when it was finished; "I begin to understandthings better. Let me see: in the first place, you felt so sorry for theold woman, that you went alone into a strange house, among a sort ofpeople you knew nothing about, and without stopping to think whether Ishould be willing to have you--wasn't that so?"

"Yes'm, " said Gypsy, hanging her head a little; "I didn't think--she didgroan so. "

"Then Mrs. Littlejohn seems to like to complain, it strikes me. "

"Complain!" said Gypsy, indignantly. 

"Yes, a little. However, she might have worse faults. The most remarkablething about her seems to be her modest request for salmon and white sugar. You propose giving them to her?"

"Why, yes'm, " said Gypsy, promptly. "She's in such dreadful pain. When Isprained my wrist, you gave me nice things to eat. "

"But it wouldn't follow that I should give Mrs. Littlejohn the same, " saidMrs. Breynton, gently. "Salmon and white sugar are expensive luxuries. Imight be able to do something to help Mrs. Littlejohn, but I might not beable to afford to take her down the two or three pounds of sugar youpromised her, nor to spend several dollars on fresh salmon--a delicacywhich we have had on our own table but once this season. Besides, thereare thirty or forty sick people in town, probably, who are as poor and asmuch in need of assistance as this one old woman. You see, don't you, thatI could not give salmon and peas and white sugar to them all, and it wouldbe unwise in me to spend all my money on one, when I might divide it, andhelp several people. "

"But there's my five dollars, " said Gypsy, only half convinced. 

"Very well, supposing I were to let you give it all away to Mrs. Littlejohn, even if she were the most worthy and needy person that couldbe found in town, what then? It is all gone. You have nothing more togive. The next week a poor little girl who has no hat, and can't go toSunday-school, excites your sympathy, and you would be glad to givesomething toward buying her a hat--you have not a copper. You go toMonthly Concert, and want to drop something into the contribution box, butMrs. Littlejohn has eaten up what you might have given. You want to dosomething for the poor freedmen, who are coming into our armies; youcannot do it, for you have nothing to give. "

"Well, " said Gypsy, with a ludicrous expression of conviction anddiscomfiture, "I suppose so; I didn't think. "

"_Didn't think!_--the old enemy, Gypsy. And now that I have pointed outthe little mistakes you made this afternoon, I want to tell you, Gypsy, how pleased I am that you were so quick to feel sorry for the old woman, and so ready to be generous with your own money and help. I would ratherhave you fail a dozen times on the unselfish side, than to have youcareless and heartless towards the people God has made poor, and insuffering----there! I have given you a long sermon. Do you think mother isalways scolding?"

Mrs. Breynton drew her into her arms, and gave her one of those littlesoft kisses on the forehead, that Gypsy liked so much. "I will go down andsee the old woman after supper, " she said, then. 

"Couldn't you go before?" suggested Gypsy. "She said she hadn't had anydinner. "

"We can't do things in too much of a hurry; not even our charities, " saidMrs. Breynton, smiling. "I have some work which I cannot leave now, and Ihave little doubt the woman had some dinner. The poor are almost alwaysvery kind neighbors to each other. I will be there early enough to takeher some supper. "

So Gypsy was comforted for Mrs. Littlejohn. 

It was nearly dark when Mrs. Breynton came up from the village, with herpleasant smile, and her little basket that half Yorkbury knew so well bysight, for the biscuit and the jellies, the blanc-mange, and the driedbeef and the cookies, that it brought to so many sick-beds. Gypsy had beenwatching for her impatiently, and ran down to the gate to meet her. 

"Well, did you find her?"

"Oh, yes. "

"What do you think of her?" asked Gypsy, a little puzzled by her mother'sexpression. 

"She is a good deal of a scold, and something of a sufferer, " said Mrs. Breynton. Gypsy's face fell, and they walked up to the house in silence. 

"Then you're not going to do anything for her?" asked Gypsy, at length, ina disappointed tone. 

"Oh, yes. She needs help. She can't be moved to the poor-house now, and, besides, is likely to get well before long, if she is properly taken careof. I gave her her supper, and have arranged with one or two of the ladiesto send her meals for a few days, till we see how she is, and what hadbetter be done. I take care of her to-morrow, and Mrs. Rowe takes her thenext day. "

"Good!" said Gypsy, brightening; "and I may take her down the things, mayn't I, mother?"

"If you want to. "

Gypsy went to bed as happy as a queen. 

The next morning she rose early, to be sure to be in time to take Mrs. Littlejohn's breakfast; and was disappointed enough, when her motherthought it best she should wait till she had eaten her own. However, onthe strength of the remembrance of her mother's tried and proved wisdom, on certain other little occasions, she submitted with a good grace. 

She carried Mrs. Littlejohn a very good breakfast of griddle-cakes andfish-balls and sweet white bread, and was somewhat taken aback to findthat the old woman received it rather curtly, and asked after the salmon. 

It was very warm at noon. When she carried the dinner, the walk was longand wearisome, and Mrs. Littlejohn neglected to call her an angel ofmercy, and it must be confessed Gypsy's enthusiasm diminished perceptibly. 

That evening Mr. And Mrs. Breynton were out to tea, and Tom was offfishing. Mrs. Breynton left Mrs. Littlejohn's supper in a basket on theshelf, and told Gypsy where it was. Gypsy had been having a great frolicin the fresh hay with Sarah Rowe, and came in late. No one but Winnie wasthere. She ate her supper in a great hurry, and went out again. Patty sawher from the window, and concluded she had gone to Mrs. Littlejohn's. 

That night, about eleven o'clock, some one knocked at Mrs. Breynton'sdoor, and woke her up. 

"Who is it?" she called. 

"Oh, mother Breynton!" said a doleful voice; "what _do_ you suppose I'vedone now?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " said Mrs. Breynton, with a resigned sigh. 

"I hope she hasn't been walking in her sleep again, " said Mr. Breynton, nervously. 

"Forgotten Mrs. Littlejohn's supper, " said the doleful voice through thekey-hole. 

"Why, Gypsy!"

"I know it, " said Gypsy, humbly. "Couldn't I dress and run down?"

"Why, no indeed! it can't be helped now. Run back to bed. "

"Just like Gypsy, for all the world!" said Tom, the next morning. "Alwaysso quick and generous, and sorry for people, and ready to do, and you candepend on her just about as much as you could on a brisk west wind!"

CHAPTER VIII

PEACE MAYTHORNE

"After you have seen Mrs. Littlejohn, and explained why she wentsupperless last night, " said Mrs. Breynton, "I want you to do an errandfor me. "

"What is it?" asked Gypsy, pleasantly. She felt very humble, and muchashamed, this morning, and anxious to make herself useful. 

"I want you to find out where Peace Maythorne's room is, --it is in thesame house, --and carry her this, with my love. "

Mrs. Breynton took up a copy of "Harper's Magazine, " and handed it toGypsy. 

"Tell her I have turned the leaf down at some articles I think willinterest her, and ask her if the powder I left her put her to sleep. "

"Who is Peace Maythorne?" asked Gypsy, wondering. "Is she poor?"

"Yes. "

"How funny to send her a 'Harper's, '" said Gypsy. "Why don't you give hersome money, or something?"

"Some things are worth more than money to some people, " said Mrs. Breynton, smiling. 

"Why! then you had been into that house before I found Mrs. Littlejohn?"said Gypsy, as the thought first struck her. 

"Oh, yes; many times. "

Gypsy started off, with the Magazine under her arm, wondering if therewere a house in town, filled with these wretched poor, in which her motherwas not known as a friend. 

Her heart sank a little as she climbed the dark stairs to Mrs. Littlejohn's room. She had begged of her mother a tiny pailful of greenpeas, with which she hoped to pacify the old woman, but she was somewhatin dread of hearing her talk, and ashamed to confess her own neglect. 

Mrs. Littlejohn was eating the very nice breakfast which Mrs. Rowe hadsent over, and groaning dolefully over it, as Gypsy entered. 

"Good morning, " said Gypsy. 

"Good morning, " said Mrs. Littlejohn, severely. 

"I went out to play in the hay with Sarah Rowe, and forgot all about yoursupper last night, and I'm just as sorry as I can be, " said Gypsy, comingto the point frankly, and without any attempt to excuse herself. 

"Oh, of course!" said Mrs. Littlejohn, in the tone of a martyr. "It's allI expect. I'm a poor lone widdy with a bone broke, and I'm used tobein'clock forgot. Little gals that has everything they want, and fivedollars besides, and promises me salmon and such, couldn't be expected toremember the sufferin'clock and afflicted, --of course not. "

It was not an easy nor a pleasant thing to apologize to a person to whomshe had played the charitable lady the day before; and Mrs. Littlejohn'smanner of receiving the explanation certainly made it no easier. ButGypsy, as the saying goes, "swallowed her pride, " and felt that shedeserved it. 

"I've brought you some peas, " she said, meekly. 

"Oh!" said the old woman, relenting a little, "you have, have you? Well, I'm obleeged to you, and you can set 'em in the cupboard. "

Gypsy emptied her peas into a yellow bowl which she found in the cupboard, and then asked, --

"Can I do anything for you?"

"I'm terrible thirsty!" said Mrs. Littlejohn, with a long groan. "There'ssome water in that air pail. "

Gypsy went into the corner where the pail stood, and filled the mug withwater; then, not being able to think of anything more to say, sheconcluded to go. 

"Good mornin'clock, " said Mrs. Littlejohn, in a forgiving tone; "I hopeyou'll come agin. "

Gypsy secretly thought it was doubtful if she ever did. Her charity, likethat of most young people of her age and experience, was not of the sortcalculated to survive under difficulties, or to deal successfully withshrewish old women. 

After inquiring in vain of the group of staring children where PeaceMaythorne's room was, Gypsy resorted to her friend, the red-faced woman, who directed her to a door upon the second story. 

It was closed, and Gypsy knocked. 

"Come in, " said a quiet voice. Gypsy went in, wondering why PeaceMaythorne did not get up and open the door, and if she did not know it wasmore polite. She stopped short, as she entered the room, and wondered nolonger. 

It was a plain, bare room, but neat enough, and not unpleasant norunhomelike, because of the great flood of morning sunlight that fell inand touched everything to golden warmth. It touched most brightly, andlingered longest, on a low bed drawn up between the windows. A girl laythere, with a pale face turned over on the pillows, and weak, thin hands, folded on the counterpane. She might, from her size, have been aboutsixteen years of age; but her face was like the face of a woman long grownold. The clothing of the bed partially concealed her shoulders, which werecruelly rounded and bent. 

So Peace Maythorne was a cripple. 

Gypsy recovered from her astonishment with a little start, and said, blushing, for fear she had been rude, --

"Good morning. I'm Gypsy Breynton. Mother sent me down with a magazine. "

"I am glad to see you, " said Peace Maythorne, smiling. "Won't you sitdown?"

Gypsy took a chair by the bed, thinking how pleasant the old, pale face, was, after all, and how kindly and happy the smile. 

"Your mother is very kind, " said Peace; "she is always doing something forme. She has given me a great deal to read. "

"Do you like to read?--I don't, " said Gypsy. 

"Why, yes!" said Peace, opening her eyes wide; "I thought everybody likedto read. Besides I can't do anything else, you know. "

"Nothing at all?" asked Gypsy. 

"Only sometimes, when the pain isn't very bad, I try to help aunt abouther sewing, I can't do much. "

"Oh, you live with your aunt?" said Gypsy. 

"Yes. She takes in sewing. She's out, just now. "

"Does your back pain you a great deal?" asked Gypsy. 

"Oh, yes; all the time. But, then, I get used to it, you know, " saidPeace. 

"_All the time!_--oh, I am so sorry!" said Gypsy, drawing a long breath. 

"Oh, it might be worse, " said Peace, smiling. 

"I've only lain here three years. Some people can't move for forty. Thedoctor says I sha'n't live so long as that. "

Gypsy looked at the low bed, the narrow room, the pallid face and shrunkenbody cramped there, moveless, on the pillows. Three years! Three years tolie through summer suns and winter snows, while all the world was out atplay, and happy!

"Well, " said Gypsy, as the most appropriate comment suggesting itself;"you _are_ rather different from Mrs. Littlejohn!"

Peace smiled. There was something rare about Peace Maythorne's smile. 

"Poor Mrs. Littlejohn! You see, she isn't used to being sick, and I am;that makes the difference. "

"Oh, I forgot!" said Gypsy, abruptly, "mother said I was to ask if thosepowders she left you put you to sleep. "

"Nicely. They're better than anything the doctor gave me; everything yourmother does seems to be the best sort, somehow. She can't touch your hand, or smooth your pillow, without doing it differently from other people. "

"That's so!" said Gypsy, emphatically. "There isn't anybody else like her. Do you lie awake very often?"

Peace answered in the two quiet words that were on her lips so often, inthe quiet voice that never complained, --

"Oh, yes. "

There was a little silence. Gypsy was watching Peace. Peace had her eyesturned away from her visitor, but she was conscious of every quick, nervous breath Gypsy drew, and every impatient little flutter of herhands. 

The two girls were studying each other. Gypsy's investigations, whateverthey were, seemed to be very pleasant, for she started at last with a bitof a sigh, and announced the result of them in the characteristic words, --

"I like you!"

To her surprise, Peace just turned up her eyes and turned them away, andthe eyes were full of tears. After a moment, --

"Thank you. I don't see many people so young--except the children. I tellthem stories sometimes. "

"But you won't like me, " said Gypsy. 

"I rather think I shall. "

"No you won't, " said Gypsy, shaking her head decidedly; "not a bit. I knowyou won't. I'm silly, --well, I'll tell you what I am by-and-by. First, Iwant to hear all about you, --everything, I mean, " she added, with a quickdelicacy, of which, for "blundering Gypsy, " she had a greatdeal, --"everything that you care to tell me. "

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

"That's just what I want to hear about. About the being cooped up. I don'tsee _how you bear it_!" said Gypsy, impetuously. 

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

Too much self-depreciation is often a sign of the extremest vanity. Peacehad nothing of this. Seeing that Gypsy was in earnest in her wish to hearher story, she quietly began it without further parley. It was verysimple, 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 walkacross 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 soglad 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 meso, and cried. Then Aunt Jane came for me, and brought me here. We livedin 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 wasthirteen years old, we were coming out at noon, all of us girls, in agreat hurry and frolic, and I felt sick and dizzy watching the wheels goround, 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 everystep. "

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

"I was sick for a little while; then I got better. I thought it was allover. Then one day I found a little curve between my shoulders, andso, --well, it came so slowly I hardly knew it, till at last I was in bedwith the pain. We had come here because it was hard times, and aunt had tosupport 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 thewords, 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, thatsounded 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 togo out in the wind and jump on the hay, and climb the mountains, and runand row and snowball, --why, it would _kill_ me! And you lie here so sweetand patient, and you haven't said a cross word all the while you've beentelling 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 veryhard, 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 saidyou would. "

"Well, " said Gypsy, tying on her hat, "that's easy enough done. I'm sillyand 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 tearingmy dresses, and worrying father, and getting mad at Winnie, and botheringMiss Melville, and romping round, and breaking my neck! and then, whenthings 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 herwords. "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 sayis, if I were you I should have scolded everybody out of the house longbefore this!"

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

"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: "Ididn'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 insending 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 herfather, in an undertone. 

"Why, Gypsy Breynton!" said Winnie, looking very much shocked; "you hadn'tought 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 hadsubsided. 

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

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

Two or three weeks after that Mrs. Littlejohn, who had been gainingrapidly in strength and good temper under Mrs. Breynton's wise and kindlycare, took it into her head one morning, when she was alone, to walkacross the room, and look out of the window. The weakened limb was not ina 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 askedif the old woman had any friends living anywhere; if so, they had betterbe sent for. But the poor creature seemed to be desolate enough; declaredshe 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 downone evening with her mother, to help her carry a bundle of freshbed-clothing, and she was astonished at the gentleness which had creptinto the old withered face and peevish voice. Mrs. Littlejohn called herup 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 adinner, 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 thekingdom of heaven?--I 'most forgot. "

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

And so one night it chanced that the old yellow cat sat blinking at thelight, 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 jumpedpurring upon the bed, and seeing what was there, curled up by it, with amournful mewing cry. 

"Peace Maythorne says, " said Gypsy, "that if Mrs. Littlejohn went toheaven, 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 greatflourish of rhetoric as prelude, announced to his audience the startlingfact that there was a "gre--at difference in people?" On the strength ofthis original statement, it has been supposed that there were a variety oftastes to be suited in selecting for the readers of "Gypsy Breynton" themost entertaining passages of this one summer in her life. The last twochapters were for the quiet young people. This one is for the lively youngpeople--the people who like to live out of doors, and have adventures, andget into difficulties, and get over them. The quiet people aforesaid neednot 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 feltone morning after her summer vacation had begun, and she was wonderingwhat she should do with herself all day, when Tom came into her room andsaid, --

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

"Mr. Hallam!" exclaimed Gypsy. Mr. Guy Hallam was a lawyer about thirtyyears old; but Tom had the natural boy's feeling about "mistering" anyone, that he had gone on fishing excursions with, ever since he couldremember; 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 ourrabbits, " said Tom, with an aggravating appearance of indifference, as ifthese 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 willfind 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 gentlemengo 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 asquirrel, and are always having headaches, and spraining their ankles, andafraid to be left alone? No, thank you!"

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

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

"Oh, mother! Tom's going to camp out with Mr. Guy Hallam, and can't Sarahand 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 comein, and it touched a bit of boy's pride, of which Gypsy was perfectlyaware he had a good deal. 

"As if I couldn't take as good care of you as Guy Hallam, or the nextman!" 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; "Ididn't say so. "

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

"We--ell, " said Tom, slowly; "I don't know as I care, if Hallamdoesn't--just for once, you understand; you're not to ask me again as longas 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 agood soldier, now he was fairly enlisted. 

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

"There's Mr. Fisher, right on top of the mountain; he'd bring me in hiswagon. 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 careof her. "

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

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

"Well, " said Mrs. Breynton, after a few minutes' thinking, "I guess so; ifTom 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 inthis world!"

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

"Oh, I'll trust her, " answered her mother, smiling; "and then, Mrs. Fisherwill be so near, and so ready to take care of her if it is cold or wet; itisn't as if she were going off into a wild place; of course, then, Ishouldn'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 doas you pleased with your girl, seeing she's the only one. "

Mrs. Rowe was willing if Mrs. Breynton were willing; Mr. Guy Hallam had noobjections. Sarah was delighted, Gypsy radiant, Tom patronizing, andWinnie envious, and so, amid a pleasant little bustle, the preparationsbegan, and one sunny morning the party stowed themselves and their baggagecomfortably away in Mr. Surly's double-seated wagon (much to the horror ofhis excellent wife, who looked out of the window, and wondered if MissRowe did expect that wild young un of hers to come home alive), andtrotted briskly out of Yorkbury, along the steep, uneven road that led tothe 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, andwho acted as driver. He was to return with his "team, " as the Vermontfarmers invariably call their vehicles, and when the party were ready tocome home Mr. Fisher was to be hired to bring them down. It would havebeen unsafe for any but an experienced driver to hold the reins on thosemountain roads, as Gypsy was convinced, afresh, before the ride was over. 

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

They passed through pine forests, dense and still, where the wind washoarse, and startled squirrels flew over the fallen trunks and boughs ofruined trees. They rode close to the edge of sheer precipices four hundredfeet down, with trout-brooks, like silver threads, winding through thegorges. Great walls of rock rose above and around them, and seemed to shutthem in with a frown. Sharp turns in the road brought them suddenly to theedge of abysses from which, in dark nights, they might have easily riddenoff. Gay flowers perfumed the fresh, high winds, and rank mosses grew andtwined, 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 towerabove their lesser comrades two by two, regular, solemn, and dark againstthe sky for miles of forest-track. Between these were patches and glimpsesof a sky without a cloud. Gypsy had seen it all many times before; but itwas always new and grand to her; it always made the blood leap in herveins and the stars twinkle in her eyes, and set her happy heart todreaming a world of pleasant dreams. 

She was leaning back against the wagon-seat, with her face upturned, towatch the leaves flutter in the distant forest-top, when Mr. Surly reinedup 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 overthe wheel. 

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

"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 onevehicle; where their wagon stood, it would have been simply impossible toplace two abreast. At their right, the wooded slope rose like a wall. Attheir left, a gorge two hundred feet deep yawned horribly, and thetrout-brook gurgled over its stones. 

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

"Reckon so, " said Mr. Surly, measuring the distance with his eye. Heclimbed in again, and took the reins, and the driver of the wood-cartwheeled up into a semi-circular widening of the road where a sand-heap hadbeen dug away. The space left was just wide enough for a carriage to passclosely without grazing the wheels of the wood-cart, or the low log whichformed 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'tyou suppose four grown men know better than we do whether it's safe? I'mnot afraid a bit. "

Nevertheless, Gypsy and Tom, and even Mr. Hallam, looked narrowly at theold frail log, and down into the gorge where the water was gurgling. Oncethe 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. Hepassed on safely into the wider road, and the wood-cart rattled composedlyon. 

"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 downhere five years ago, --jist off that maple-tree there, --horse, wagin, andall, an'clock two men, brothers they was, too; one man hung onto a branchor suthin'clock, and was ketched and saved; t'other one got crushed tojelly. It was a terrible dark night. "

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

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

It was a pleasant spot, far enough in the woods to be still and wild, nearenough to the little settlement on top of the mountain to be free frombears, as Sarah had required to be informed ten separate times, on theway. 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, andfish-hooks. It seemed very warlike and real, Gypsy thought--quite as ifthey intended to spend the rest of their lives there. She almost wished aparty of Indians would come and attack them, or a bear or a wolf. 

Having selected a smooth, level spot for the tents, Mr. Hallam thoughtthey had better put them up immediately. It chanced that he and Tom eachowned one, which was a much better arrangement than the dividing of oneinto two apartments. The two were placed side by side, and the girls' tentwas distinguished and honored by a bit of a flag on top, and an extra foldof rubber-cloth in front, to keep out the rain. There was also a ditch dugaround 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, " saidTom. 

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

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

They were really astonished to find how much they had brought, when it wasall taken out of the baskets and boxes and bags, and each article providedwith a place within or without the tents. To begin with, the little girlshad each a bag of such things as were likely to be necessary for theirmountain toilet, consisting principally of dry stockings; for, as Gypsysaid, they expected to wet their feet three or four times a day, and sheshould enjoy it for once. Then they had brought their long waterproofcloaks, in which they considered themselves safe from a deluge. There wereplenty of fish-lines, and tin pans and kettles, and knives and steelforks, and matches, and scissors and twine and needles, and the endlessvariety of accoutrements necessary to a state of highly-civilizedcamp-life. There were plates and mugs and pewter teaspoons, --Mrs. Breyntonwould not consent to letting her silver ones go, --and Gypsy thought theothers were better, because it seemed more like "being wild. " Indeed, shewould have dispensed with spoons altogether, but Sarah gave a littlescream 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, andeggs and raw meat, and fresh vegetables. They expected, however, to livechiefly 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. Arough box served as a dressing-table, and Sarah had brought a bit of alooking-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 intotheir 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 veryluxurious sort of camp-life. After a little consultation, they decided tomake 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 bythe 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 andcrockery were moved in there, in spite of Tom's ungallant remark that heand 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 lastcompleted, 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 tiredand hungry, --indeed we all are, for that matter, --and I guess we will havesupper. "

Gypsy installed herself as housekeeper-in-general, and she and Sarah lostno time in unpacking the cake and bread and butter. Tom collected somelight, dry brushwood for a fire, and he and Mr. Hallam made the coffee. Itseemed as if no supper had ever tasted as that supper did. The freemountain air was so fresh and strong, and the breath of the pines sosweet. It was so pleasant to sit on the moss around a fire, and eat withyour fingers if you chose, without shocking anybody. Then the woods lookedso wide and lonely and still, and it was so strange to watch the great redsunset dying like a fire through the thick green net-work, where thepine-boughs and the maple interlaced. 

For about five minutes after supper was cleared away, when the greatshadows began to darken among the trees, Sarah discoursed in a vague, scientific way, about the habits of bears, and Gypsy had a dim notion thatshe shouldn't so very much object to see her mother come walking up themountain, 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 passedhappily away. 

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

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

Sarah was so much accustomed to doing as Gypsy told her, that she turnedover and went to sleep without another word. It was not a good thing forGypsy to be so much with just such a girl as Sarah. She was physically theweaker of the two, as well as the more timid, and she had fallen into ahabit of obeying, and Gypsy of commanding, by a sort of mutual tacitagreement. It was partly for this reason, as was natural enough, thatGypsy chose her so often for a companion, but principally because Sarahnever refused any romp or adventure; other timid girls liked to have theirown way and choose their own quiet plays. Sarah's timidity yielded toGypsy'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 fullspeed 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 ofcompanionship. Her frank, impulsive generosity saved her from becomingtyrannical or dictatorial. The worst of it was, that she was forced toform 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 makingplans for to-morrow, until at last her happy thoughts faded into happydreams. 

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

Gypsy sat upright in bed, and listened. 

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

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

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

Then she rose quickly and went on tiptoe to the tent-door. Her handtrembled a little as she touched the canvas gently--so gently that itscarcely 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 thestill night air, and echoed through the forest. He thought Gypsy must behaving 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 thegirls by peering in at a hole in the tent-roof, and making a little roundgolden fleck, that danced across their eyelids until they opened. 

They were scarcely dressed, when Tom's voice, with a spice of mischief init, called Gypsy from outside. The girls hurried out, and there he satwith Mr. Hallam, before a crackling fire over which some large fresh troutwere 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 hisprovoking fashion. "Nobody can do any fishing while girls are round. "

"Tom doesn't deserve any for that speech, " said Mr. Hallam, smiling; "andI shall have to tell of him. It happens that I caught the fish while acertain 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 halfan hour. "

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

Tom whistled. 

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

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

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

"Pretty enough, " said Gypsy, affecting carelessness, and trying to unwindher 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 upstream, " said Tom. "Now don't speak a word, and be sure you don't screamif you catch a fish by any chance between you, and frighten them allaway. "

"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 girlsfished for just half an hour in silence. That is to say, they sat on thebank, and held a rod. Sarah had had one faint nibble, but that was allthat 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 outthere. "

So she stepped out carefully on the loose stones, which tilted ominouslyunder 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 wentGypsy. She disappeared from sight a moment in the shallow water; thensplashed 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 godirectly home, and you'll catch cold before you can get there. This is apretty fix!"

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

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

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

That afternoon, it chanced that the girls were left alone for about onehour. Mr. Hallam had taken Tom some distance up the stream for acomfortable little fish by themselves, and left the girls to preparesupper, 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 lastGypsy became tired of having nothing but the trees to look at, andsuggested a visit to the brook. She had seen some checker-berry leavesgrowing 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 downover 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 timehad been, and were surprised to find it growing rapidly dark in the forestwhen they came panting back to the tent, out of breath with the haste theyhad 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 thesmouldering hickory fire; there was no other sound. 

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

"They haven't come!" exclaimed Sarah. 

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

"You know, " suggested Sarah, timidly, "you know Mr. Hallam said we were tostay at the tents. Perhaps they came while we were gone, and couldn't findus, 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 mustmake the best of it now. "

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

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

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

"No, " said Gypsy, decidedly. "We can't go to Mr. Fisher's, because thatwould 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. Perhapswe'll have to stay here alone all night, --oh, Gypsy!"

"Nonsense!" said Gypsy, looking as bold as possible; "it wouldn't be sodreadful if we did. Besides, of course, we sha'n't; they'll be back herebefore long. You go in the tent, if you feel any safer there, and I'llmake 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; butin about ten minutes she came back, feeling a little ashamed of hertimidity, and sat down by Gypsy before the fire. It was a strangepicture--the ghostly white tents and tangled brushwood gilded with thelight; the great forest stretching away darkly beyond; the fitful shadowsand glares from the flickering fire that chased each other in strange, uncouth shapes, among the leaves, and the two children sitting there alonewith frightened, watching eyes. 

"I'm not a bit afraid, " said Gypsy, after a silence, in a tone as if shewere rather arguing with herself than with Sarah. "I think it's rathernice. Tom left his gun all loaded, and we can defend ourselves againstanything. I'm going to get it, and we'll play we're Union refugees hidingin 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 tomanage 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 andsee. "

The curious sound came nearer; tramped through the underbrush; crushed thedead twigs. Gypsy's finger was on the trigger; her face a little pale. Shethought the idea of the bear all nonsense; she did not know what shefeared; 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 thetrees. 

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

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 quickmotion, like one in suffocation, who was trying to find a voice; but shedid not utter a sound. 

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

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

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

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 haveinjured 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 armsabout his neck and hid her face close upon his shoulder, and cried as ifher heart would break. 

It was a long time before she spoke, --only kissing him and clinging to himthrough 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. Hallamran 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 andcry. "

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

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

Sarah was left to tell their story; which she did with remarkablejustness, considering how frightened she was. She shared with Gypsy theblame of having left the tents, and insisted that it was her fault thatthe gun went off. Before the account was quite finished, Gypsy called Tomfrom 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 havehad 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, alittle, and Sarah thought you were a bear. "

"I have told you a great many times that it is _never_ safe for you totouch my gun, " said Tom, gravely. He felt that Gypsy's carelessness mighthave 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 motherwas not there to tell her so, he must. 

But Gypsy dropped her head, and looked so humble and wretched, that he hadnot 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 andpleasant, and the birds were singing, and the world didn't look at all asif she had nearly killed her brother twelve hours before, so she found shewas laughing in spite of herself, and two very happy days passed afterthat. Mr. Hallam made a rule that he or Tom should keep the girlsconstantly in sight, and that, during the time spent in excursions whichthey could not join, they should remain in Mr. Fisher's house. He said itwas too wild a place for them to be alone in for any length of time, andhe was sorry he left them before. 

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

At the end of the fourth day, just at supper time, a dark cloud sailedover 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 werewashing 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. Afterthinking a while, Mr. Hallam decided to let them stay. 

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

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

"Oh, Sarah, it's come! It's raining like everything, and here we are, andwe 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 puddleof 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. Theleaves _are_ a little damp. "

So they put on their tweed cloaks, and Gypsy listened to the wind, andthought 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, andone of the rivulets that were sweeping down the mountain splashed in underthe 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 sprangjust in time to save them. 

The dinner-basket and a tin pail were fast following, when Tom appearedupon 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 outis 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 brightflash of lightning glared far through the forest. Sarah was afraid sheshould be struck. Gypsy was thinking how grand it was, and wished shecould be out in a midnight storm every week. 

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

So the girls bade Tom good-night, and he went back to Mr. Hallam, andthey, feeling very cold and sleepy and drenched, were glad enough to betaken 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. "Afeather-bed, and--and _pil_lows! (with a little jump to keep awake longenough to finish her sentence) are a little better--on the whole--than amud--pud----"

Just there she went to sleep. The next day it poured from morning tillnight. That was just what Mr. Hallam and Tom liked, so they fished allday, and the girls amused themselves as best they might in Mr. Fisher'sbarn. The day after it rained in snatches, and the sun shone in littlespasms between. A council of exigencies met in Mr. Hallam's tent, and itwas unanimously decided to go home. Even Gypsy began to long for civilizedlife, though she declared that she had never in all her life had such agood 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 thedoor--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 MissMelville was not going to teach any more. 

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

It chanced that they were remodelling some of the rooms at the highschool, and the winter term, which would otherwise have commenced inSeptember, 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 shecould, 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. Whatto do with herself, for another long month of vacation, was more than sheknew. 

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

Mrs. Breynton, however, thought it best Gypsy should make this visit; andGypsy, 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 toParadise. 

It took a few days of delightful hurry and bustle to get ready. There wasmuch washing and mending and altering, sewing on of trimmings and lettingdown of tucks, to be done for her; for Mrs. Breynton desired to spare herthe discomfort of feeling "countrified, " and Yorkbury style was notdistinctively _a la Paris_. She told Gypsy, frankly, that she must expectto find her cousin Joy better dressed than herself; but that her wardrobeshould be neat and tasteful, and in as much accordance with the prevailingmode as was practicable; so she hoped she would have too much self-respectto 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 atlast bidden them all good-by, kissed her mother just ten times, and wasfairly 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 usedto travelling, having never been farther than to Burlington or Vergennesin her life, yet she was not in the least afraid to take the journeyalone. Her mother felt sure she could take care of herself, and her fatherhad given her so many directions, and written such careful memoranda forher, 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 amistake. Being a bright, observing child, fearless as a boy, and not inthe least inclined to worry, she had no trouble at all. The conductor wasvery kind; an old gentleman, who was pleased with her twinkling eyes andred cheeks, gave her an orange, and helped look after her baggage; two oldladies gave her fennel and peppermints; and before she reached Boston shewas 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 sorrywhen they reached the city, and the train rolled slowly into the darkdepot. 

The passengers were crowding rapidly out, the lamps were lighted in thecar, and she felt a little lonely sitting still there, and waiting for heruncle. 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, calledout, --

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

She was hurried into a carriage, her trunk was tossed on behind, and thenthe door was shut, and they were driven rapidly away through a maze ofcrooked streets, glare of gaslights, and brilliant shop-windows, thatbewildered 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 yourfather? Why didn't he come with you? Is your mother well? And thatboy--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 likedher uncle very much, only he had such a funny way of asking questions, andthen forgetting all about them. 

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

"Sit down, sit down, " said her uncle; "I'll call your aunt. I don't seewhere 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 thedoor. 

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

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

"Miranda!--Joy!"

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

Gypsy heard every word, and she began to wonder if her aunt were very gladto see her, and what sort of a girl her cousin must be, if she didn't obeyher mother unless she chose to. Just then Joy came down stairs, walkingvery slowly and properly, and came into the parlor with the manners of ayoung lady of eighteen. She might have been a pretty child, if she hadbeen 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 herfingers to shake hands, and she looked a little surprised, but kissed herpolitely, and asked if she were tired with the journey. Just then Mrs. Breynton came in, with many apologies for her delay, met Gypsy kindlyenough, 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 velvetnow--most everybody has a pheasant. "

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

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

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

"There's dinner, " she said, after a silence, in which she had beensecretly 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 sittingdown 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 haveliked to ask her cousin what there was to be ashamed of in being used tocountry hours, when you lived in the country. But they had reached thedining-room door, and her aunt was calling out somewhat fretfully to Joyto hurry, so she said nothing. 

After supper, her uncle said she looked very much like her father, hopedshe 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 auntinquired if she could play on the piano, was surprised to find she knewnothing more classical than chants and Scotch airs; told Joy to let herhear that last air of Von Weber's; and then she took up a novel which waslying partially read upon the table. When Joy was through playing, sheproposed a game of solitaire. Gypsy would much rather have examined thebeautiful and costly ornaments with which the rooms were filled, but shewas 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 onthe solitaire board. 

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

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

"Why, what do you do?"

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

_"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 withme. 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'tsay anything. I have just the nicest times. Winnie and I tipped over lastspring, --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 inthe cars through, to keep the cinders off. Then, besides that, I row andcoast, and, --oh, I forgot, walking on the fences; it's real fun if youdon't tumble off. "

_"Walking on the fences!"_

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

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

Gypsy was one of those happy people who are gifted with the faculty ofalways having a pleasant time, and the solitaire game was good enough, ifit hadn't been so quiet; but when she went up to bed, she looked somewhatsober. She bade Joy good-night, shut herself into the handsomely-furnishedroom which had been given her, sat down on the floor, and winked hardseveral times. She would not have objected at that moment to seeing hermother, or Tom, or pulling her father's whiskers, or squeezing Winnie alittle, or looking into the dear, familiar sitting-room where they wereall gathered just then to have prayers. She began to have a vague ideathat there was no place like home. She also came to the conclusion, veryfaintly, and feeling like a traitor all the time, that her Aunt Mirandawas very fashionable and very fretful, and did not treat Joy at all as hermother treated her; that Joy thought her countrified, and had never walkedon 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 delightsof the great, wonderful city remained unexplored, and who could tell whatundreamed-of joys to-morrow would bring forth?

So Gypsy's smiles came back after their usual punctual fashion, and shefell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, to dream that she wassitting 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 aterrible feeling in her lungs and throat, and sat up in bed gasping, tosee 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 openthe windows. "Didn't you know any better than that?"

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

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

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

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

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

Gypsy remembered what her mother said: and, because her casaque happenedto be cut after Miss Jones's patterns instead of Madame Demorest's, shedid not feel that her character was seriously affected; but it was notpleasant 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 alittle 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 thatcareless way. 

"You've never seen the Common, I suppose, nor the Public Gardens?" saidJoy, 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'tlike Boston if I have to wear gloves week-days. I can't bear the feelingof 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 shewas 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 inYorkbury. We'll go up to the Common in a minute. "

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

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

"Why!" exclaimed Joy; "don't you like it? See the fountains, and the deerand 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 nobodyround. I like the rabbits better, jumping round at home under thepine-trees. Then I think the trout-brook, at Ripton, is a great dealprettier 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 cameto Tremont, and then to Washington Street, Gypsy was in an ecstasy. Shekept calling to Joy to see that poor little beggar girl, or that funny oldwoman, or that negro boy who was trying to stand on his head, or thehandsome feather on that lady's bonnet, and stopped every other minute tosee some beautiful toy or picture in a shop-window, till Joy lost allpatience. 

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

"I never did, " said Gypsy, coolly. 

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

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

"Oh, I'm tired to death of the Aquarial Gardens, " answered Joy; "none ofthe 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, withsparkling 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 thatchild for something. "

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

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

The day after her aunt had a large dinner company. No one would haveimagined that Gypsy dreaded it in the least; but, in her secret heart, shedid. Joy seemed to be perfectly happy when she was dressed in herbrilliant Stuart plaid silk, with its long sash and valenciennes laceruffles, and spent a full half hour exhibiting her jewelry-box to Gypsy'swondering eyes, and trying to decide whether she would wear her coralbrooch and ear-rings, which matched the scarlet of the plaid, or ahandsome malachite set, which were the newer. 

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

The first half hour of dinner passed off pleasantly enough. Gypsy washungry; for she had just come home from a long walk to Williams &Everett's picture gallery, and the dinner was very nice; the only troublewith it being that, there were so many courses, she could not decide whatto eat and what to refuse. But after a while a deaf old gentleman, who satnext her, felt conscientiously impelled to ask her where she lived and howold she was, and she had to scream so loud to answer him, that itattracted the attention of all the guests. Then the dessert came and thewine, and an hour and a half had passed, and still no one showed any signsof leaving the table, and the old gentleman made spasmodic attempts atconversation, at intervals of ten minutes. The hour and a half became twohours, and Gypsy was so thoroughly tired out sitting still, it seemed asif 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 gentlemanplacidly. This was a drop too much. Gypsy swallowed her water the wrongway, 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 ofher, and much displeased. She locked herself into her own room, feelingvery miserable, and would not have gone down stairs again if she had notbeen 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 thepiano, 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 anythingbut Scotch airs. "

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

"Certainly, Gypsy, " said her aunt, with a look which plainly said, "Don'tthink of it. "

Gypsy's mother had taught her that it was both disobliging and affected torefuse to play when she was asked, no matter how simple her music mightbe. So, not knowing how to refuse, and wishing the floor would open andswallow 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, andseemed to enjoy them. But that night, just as she was going to bed, sheaccidentally 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, andsuch teachers as you have had, I wouldn't think of letting you play beforeanybody 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 outshopping in Summer Street. They had just come out of Hovey's, when theymet a ragged child, not more than three years old, crying as if its heartwere broken. 

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

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

For Gypsy had stopped and taken the child's two dirty little fists downfrom her eyes, and looked down into the tear-stained and mud-stained faceto 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 thelittle 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 thechild's hand, she started off in her usual impulsive fashion, without athought beyond her pity. 

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

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

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 thingas to go off with a beggar, and _take hold of her hand_ right there inSummer Street, and go nobody knows where, alone, into those terrible Irishstreets! It was a _dreadful_ thing to do, and I should think you wouldhave known better, and I really think I must write to your mother about itimmediately!"

Gypsy stood for a moment, motionless with astonishment. Then, withoutsaying a word, she passed her aunt quickly on the stairs, and ran up toher room. Her face was very white. If she had been at home she would havebroken 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 terribledinner-companies, and her aunt so angry at her! It was too much--she couldnot bear it! She looked about the room twice, passed her hand over herforehead, 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, andshe saw, from the window, that her aunt and Joy were going out. She thenremembered that she had heard them say they had some calls to make at thathour. Her uncle was at the store, and no one was now in the house besidesherself, 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 onelistening outside could have heard her moving briskly about, openingdrawers 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-standand 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 Ishall have to see him. "

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

"This way, " said Gypsy, opening the door. She led the way to her room, andthe man who followed her shouldered her trunk with one hand, and carriedit out to a carriage which stood at the door. Gypsy went into her aunt'sroom 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 inher pocket, and ran hastily down stairs after him, and into the carriage. The man strapped on her trunk, slammed the door upon her, and, mountinghis box, drove rapidly away. Kate, who happened to be looking out of oneof the basement windows, saw the carriage, but did not notice the trunk. She supposed Gypsy was riding somewhere to meet her aunt or uncle, andwent on with her dusting. 

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

Gypsy thanked him, and going up to the ticket-master, asked him somethingin 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 thedarkest corner she could find. She seemed to be very much afraid of beingrecognized; for she shrank from every new-comer, and started every timethe door opened. 

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

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

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

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

"No, sir, I hain't!"

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

He looked troubled and anxious. Gypsy's cheeks flushed, --a sudden impulsecame 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 uncledisappeared 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 linedthe way, she began, for the first time, to think what she was doing, andto wonder if she were doing right. Her anger at her aunt, and the utterdisappointment and homesickness of her Boston visit, had swept away, for afew moments, all her power of reasoning. To get home, to see hermother, --to hide her head on her shoulder and cry, --this was the onethought that had turned itself over and over in her mind, on that quickride from Beacon Street, and in that hour spent in the dark corner of thedepot. Here she was, running like a thief from her uncle's house, withouta word of good-by or thanks for his hospitality, with no message to tellhim where she had gone but that note, hastily written in the first flushof her hurt and angry feelings. And the hurrying train was whirling herover hill and valley faster and farther. To go back was impossible, go onshe must. What had she done?

She began now, too, to wonder where she should spend the night. The trainwent only as far as Rutland, and it would be late and dark when shereached 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 shouldshe do?

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

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

Gypsy made no reply. 

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

"To Rutland, sir, " said Gypsy, feeling very uneasy, as she perceived theodor 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 sherose and tried to pass him. 

"I will show you the way, " he said, standing up, and reeling slightly ashe tried to walk. Gypsy, in despair, looked for the conductor. He wasnowhere to be seen. The crowd passed out, quite careless of the frightenedchild, 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 spranginto 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 tosee you, and I've got to go to a hotel, and I didn't know what motherwould 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 toCousin 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 trainalone, " said Mrs. Surly, with a keen, curious look at Gypsy's face; "but Iknow your ma'd never let you go to a hotel this time o' night, and MaryAnn she'd be delighted to see you; so you'd better come along. "

Gypsy was so happy and so thankful, she could fairly have kissedher, --even her, Mrs. Surly. Cousin Mary Ann received her hospitably, andthe evening and the night passed quickly away. Mrs. Surly was verycurious, and somewhat suspicious on the subject of Gypsy's return toYorkbury, under such peculiar circumstances. Gypsy said that she leftBoston quite suddenly, that they were not expecting her at home, and thatshe took so late a train for several reasons, but had not thought that itwent 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 shesoon gave up trying. 

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

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

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

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

"Why, Miss Gypsy!--why, really! You home again, my dear? Why, your fatherdidn'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 soexactly like you, my dear. "

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

"Don't like Boston? Well, you _are_ a remarkable young lady!" exclaimedMr. Simms, and relapsed into silence, watching Gypsy's flushed and eagerface, 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 underthe elm-trees?"

"I guess it's Mr. Hallam. "

"Oh, to be sure, " interrupted Gypsy, looking very bright. "I see, --Mr. GuyHallam. 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 andkeep 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. Simmsthought this capped the climax. 

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

She sprang down the carriage-steps at a bound, and ran into the house. Hermother was out in the kitchen helping Patty about the dinner. She heardsuch a singing and shouting as no one had made in the house since Gypsywent 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 theentry door, wiping her hands on her apron, and everybody must be kissedall round, and for a few minutes there was such a bustle, that Gypsy couldhardly hear herself speak. 

"What has brought you home so soon?" asked her mother, then. "We didn'tlook for you for a week yet. "

"Oh, I hate Boston!" cried Gypsy, pulling off her things. "I didn't likeanything but the Museum and Bunker Hill; and Joy wore silk dresses, andwouldn't let me look in the shop-windows, 'n I took a poor, littlebeggar-girl home, and you can't run round any, and Aunt Miranda told meshe'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 norend of Gypsy's excited story. 

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

Mr. And Mrs. Breynton exchanged glances. They saw that something waswrong; but wisely considered that that time was not the one for making anyinquiries into the matter. Mrs. Breynton thought, also, that if Gypsy hadbeen guilty of ill-temper or rudeness, she would confess it herself. Shewas 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, andwhen Gypsy came out her eyes were red with crying. 

All that Mrs. Breynton said does not matter here; but Gypsy is not likelysoon 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 littleself-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 alwaysdoing things, and always sorry for them. I mean to do right, and I cannotremember. 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 wordsand 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 wasvery still. Whatever thoughts she had just then, she never told them toany one. 

The afternoon passed away like a merry dream. Gypsy was so happy that shehad had the talk with her mother; so glad to be kissed and forgiven andloved and helped; to find every one so pleased to see her back, and homeso dear, and the mountains so blue and beautiful, and the sunlight sobright, that she scarcely knew whether she were asleep or awake. She musthunt up the kitten, and feed the chickens, and take a peep at the cow, andstroke old Billy in his stall; she must see how many sweet peas were lefton the vines, and climb out on the shed-roof that had been freshlyshingled since she was gone, and run down to the Kleiner Berg, and over tosee Sarah Rowe. She must know just what Tom had been doing thisinterminable week, just how many buttons Winnie had lost off from hisjacket, and what kind of pies Patty had baked for dinner. She must kissher mother twenty times an hour, and pull her father's whiskers, and rideWinnie on her shoulder. Best of all, perhaps, it was to run down to PeaceMaythorne's, and find the sunlight golden in the quiet room, and the paleface smiling on the pillow; to hear the gentle voice, when the dooropened, 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 tellher all that had happened. 

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

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

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

"My dear Uncle and Aunt Miranda:

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

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

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

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

"I wish you'd let Joy come up here. I'd take her boating and riding, andup 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 wishyou'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 eversaw. 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")