* ** 
 
 
 . , 
 
 *:*# 
 
 * # ;"
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 In I lie thnc-udle swain />, afttr
 
 THE 
 
 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 BT 
 
 E. STUART PHELPS. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, 
 PUBLISHERS.
 
 1876, Dodd Affaa & Co
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 1 
 
 WIUCP INTRODUCES HER 
 
 CHAPTER 1] 
 & SPASM OP ORDEB .... 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 Miss MELVILLE'S VISITOB .... 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 GrrsT HAS A DREAM .... 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 WHAT SHE SAW 
 
 CHAPTER Vi 
 DP IN THE APPLE-TREK . . 
 
 622775
 
 * CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MM 
 
 JUOT LIKE GYPSY 13 
 
 CHAPTER VIJL 
 PEACE MAYTHOKNE ....... c , . 15? 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 CAMPING GDT . . . . l?8 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 THE END OF THE WEEK ..<..... 214 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON ....... 225 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HO PtAOS L.IKK IlOMB ..*,,,: t , t&i
 
 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 WHICH INTRODUCES HER, 
 
 )YPSY BREYNTON. Hon. Gypsy 
 Breynton, Esq., M. A., D. D., 
 LL. D., &c., &c. Gypsy Breyii- 
 ton, 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-line flourishes, with little black curves 
 in the middle of them. It had been acquired 
 in the book-keeping class of Yorkbury high 
 school, and had taken a prize at the end of 
 the summer term. And therefore did Tom 
 lean back in his chair, and survey, with
 
 12 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 intense satisfaction, the great sheet of ser 
 mon-papcr which was covered with his scrawl* 
 ings. 
 
 Tom was a handiome fellow, if he did look 
 very well pleased with himself at that particu- 
 lar moment. His curly hair was black and 
 bright, and brushed off from a full forehead, 
 and what with that faint, dark line of mous- 
 tache just visible above his lips, and that 
 irresistible twinkle to his great merry eyes, 
 it is no wonder Gypsy was proud of him, 
 as indeed she certainly was, nor did she 
 hesitate to tell him so twenty times a day. 
 This was a treatment of which Tom decidedly 
 approved. Exactly how beneficial it was to 
 the growth within him of modesty, self-forget- 
 fulness, and the passive virtues generally, ia 
 another question. 
 
 The room in which Tom was sitting might 
 bave been exhibited with profit by Mr. Bar- 
 lium, as a legitimate relic of that chaos and
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES HER. 13 
 
 Old Xight, which the poets tell us was dis- 
 pelled by the light of this order-loving crea- 
 tion. 
 
 It had a bed in it, as well as several chairs 
 and a carpet, but it required considerable 
 search to discover them, for the billows ol 
 feminine drapery that were piled upon them. 
 Three dresses, Tom counted, to make sure, 
 one on the bedpost, one rolled up in a heap 
 on the floor where it had fallen, and one spread 
 out on the counterpane, with benzine on it. 
 What with kerosene oil, candle-drippings, 
 and mugs of milk, Gypsy managed to keep 
 one dress under the benzine treatment all the 
 time ; it was an established institution, and 
 had long ago ceased to arouse remark, even 
 from Tom. There was also a cloak upon one 
 chair, and a crocheted cape tied by the tassels 
 on another. There was a white tippet hang- 
 ing on the stove-pipe. There was a bandbox 
 up in one corner with a pretty hat lying on
 
 14 GYPSY BllEYNTON. 
 
 the outside, its long, light feather catching 
 the dust ; it was three days now 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 the middle of the 
 room. Then the wardrobe door was wide 
 open, it was too full to stay shut, upon a 
 sight which, I think, even Gypsy would 
 hardly want put into print. White skirts 
 and dressing-sacks ; winter hoods that ought 
 to have been put up in camphor long ago ; 
 aprons hung up by the trimming ; a calico 
 dress that yawned mournfully out of a 
 twelve-inch tear in the skirt ; a pile of stock- 
 ings that had waited long, and were likely 
 to wait longer, for darning ; some rubber- 
 boots and a hatchet. 
 
 The bureau drawers, Torn observed, were 
 tightly shut, probably for very good rea- 
 sons. The table, at which he sat, was a 
 curiosity to the speculative mind. The clotl
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES HER. 15 
 
 was two thirds off, and slipping, by a verj 
 gradual process, to the floor. On the remain- 
 ing third stood an inkstand and a bottle of 
 mucilage, as well as a huge pile of books, a 
 glass tumbler, a Parian vase, a jack-knife, a 
 pair of scissors, a thimble, two spools of 
 thread, a small kite, and a riding-whip. The 
 rest of the table had been left free to draw a 
 map on, and was covered with pencils and 
 rubber ; compasses, paper, and torn geography 
 leaves. 
 
 There were several pretty pictures on the 
 walls, but they were all hung crookedly ; the 
 curtain at the window was unlooped, and you 
 could write your name anywhere in the dust 
 that covered mantle, stove, and furniture. 
 
 And this was Gypsy's room. 
 
 Tom had spent a longer time hi looking at 
 it than I have taken to tell about it, and 
 when he was through looking he did one of 
 those things that big brothers of sixteen long
 
 16 GYTSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 years' experience in this life, who are al 
 ways teasing you and making fun of you 
 and "preaching" at you, are afflicted with a 
 chronic and incurable tendency to do. It is 
 very fortunate 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 you value your peace of mind, 
 lace collars, clean clothes, good tempers, and 
 private property generally. I'd put a pin 
 through these leaves, or fasten them 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 a broom 
 to it (he found it in the corner with a little 
 heap of dust behind it, as Gypsy had left it 
 when her mother sent her up to sweep the 
 room that morning) , and dressed it up in 
 the three dresses, the cloaks and the cape, 
 one above another, the chair serving as crin-
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES HER. 17 
 
 oliue. Upon the top of the broom-handle he 
 tied the torn apron, stuffed out with the 
 rubber-boots, and pinned on slips of the 
 geography leaves for features ; Massachusetts 
 and Vermont giving the graceful effect of one 
 pink eye and one yellow eye, Australia mak- 
 ing a very blue nose, and Japan a small green 
 mouth. The hatchet and the riding-whip 
 served as arms, and the whole figure was sur- 
 mounted 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 pairs 
 of shoes and rubbers and the entire contents 
 of the sliding table-cloth, down to every soli- 
 tary pencil, needle, and crumb of cake, were 
 ranged in a line on the carpet. To crown 
 the whole, he pinned upon the image that 
 paper placard upon which he had been scrib- 
 bling. 
 
 When his laudable work was completed, 
 this ingenious and remorseless boy had to
 
 18 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 stand und laugh at it for five minutes, li 
 Gypsy had only seen him then ! And Gypsy 
 v/as nearer than he thought in the front 
 door, and coming up the stairs with a great 
 banging and singing and laughing, as nobody 
 but Gypsy could come up stairs. Tom just 
 put his hand on the window-sill, and gave ono 
 leap out on the kitchen roof, and Gypsy burst 
 in, and stopped short. 
 
 Tom crouched down against the side of tho 
 house, and held his breath. For about half 
 a minute it was perfectly still. Then a soft, 
 merry laugh broke out all at once on tho 
 air, something as a little brook would splash 
 down in 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 the placard. 
 
 "Gypsy Breynton. Hon. Hon. Gyps^ 
 Brernton, what? Oh, Esq. M A. D.D,
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES HER. 18 
 
 LL. D. what a creature he is! 
 Brejntou, K. E. R. 72. ? I'm sure I don't 
 k\iow what that means Tom ! Thorn as ! * 
 
 Just then she caught sight of him out OD 
 the ridge-pole, whittling away as coolly as if 
 he had sat there all his life. 
 
 " Good afternoon," said Gypsy, politely. 
 
 " Good afternoon," said Tom. 
 
 w Been whittling out there ever since din- 
 ner, I suppose ? " 
 
 w Certainly." 
 
 W I thought so. Come here a minute." 
 
 "Come out here," said Tom. Gypsy climb- 
 ed out of the window without the slightest 
 hesitation, and walked along the ridge-polo 
 with the ease and fearlessness of a boy. 
 She had on a pretty blue delaine dress, which 
 was wet and torn, and all stuck together 
 with burs ; her boots were covered with mud 
 to the ankle ; her white stockings spattered 
 and brown ; her turban was hanging round
 
 20 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 her neck by its elastic ; her net had come off, 
 and the wind was blowing her hair all over 
 her eyes ; she had her sack thrown over one 
 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, 
 somehow or other, to look as pretty as a 
 picture, with her cheeks as red as a coral, and 
 the soft brown hair that was tossing about her 
 eyes. Gypsy's eyes were the best part of 
 her. They were very large and brown, and 
 had that same irresistible twinkle that was in 
 Tom's eyes, only a great deal more of it; 
 and then it was always there. They twinkled 
 when she was happy and when she was cross .; 
 they twinkled over her school-books ; they 
 , in spite cf themselves, at church and
 
 WHICH INTHODUCES HEE. 21 
 
 Sabbath school; and, when she was at play, 
 they shone like a whole galaxy of stars. If 
 ever Gypsy's eyes ceased twinkling, people 
 knew she was going to be sick. Hei hair, I 
 ain soiiy to say, was not curly. 
 
 Tins was Gypsy's one unalleviated affliction 
 ni life. That a girl could possibly be pretty 
 with straight hair, had never once entered 
 ber mind. All the little girls in story-books 
 bad curls. Who ever heard of the straight- 
 haired maiden that made wreaths of the rose- 
 buds, or saw the fairies, or married the 
 Prince? And Gypsy's hair was not only 
 straight, it was absolutely uncurlablc. A 
 week's penance " done up in paper " made no 
 more impression than if you were to pinch it. 
 
 However, that did not interfere with her 
 milking a bit of a picture, perched up there 
 on the roof beside Tom, among h<r burs and 
 ber flowers and her moss, her face all dimples 
 from forehead to chin.
 
 22 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Where have you been?" said Tom, try 
 ing to look severe, and making a most re- 
 markable 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 so funny." 
 
 "Your boots are all mud," said Tom. 
 
 " Who cares ? " said Gypsy, with a merry 
 laugh, tipping all the wet, earthy moss out 
 on her lap, as she spoke. " See ! isn't there 
 a quantity? I like moss 'cause it fills up. 
 Violets are pretty enough, only you do have 
 to pick 'em one at a time. Innocence comes 
 up by the handful, only mine's most all 
 roots." 
 
 " I don't know what's going to become of 
 you," said Tom. drawing down the corner of 
 his mouth.
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES HER. 23 
 
 "Neither do I," said Gypsy, demurely ; "1 
 wish I did." 
 
 " You won't learn to apply yourself to any- 
 thing," persisted Tom. "Work or play, 
 
 there's no system to you. You're like a " 
 
 Tom paused for a simile " Well, like a toad 
 that's alwa}^s on the jump." 
 
 "Ow!"said Gypsy, with a little scream, 
 " there's a horrid old snail crawled out my 
 moss ! " and over went moss, flowers, basket, 
 and all, down the roof and upon the stono 
 steps below. " There ! Good enough for 
 it!" 
 
 Tom coughed and whittled. Gypsy pulled 
 her net out of her pocket, and put up her 
 hair. There was a little silence. Nothing 
 had yet been said about the image in Gypsy's 
 room, and both were determined not to be 
 the first to speak of it. Gypsy could have 
 patience enough where a joke was in ques- 
 tion, and, as is very apt to be the cai*e, the
 
 24 GYTSY BREYNTON. 
 
 Doy found himself outwitted. For not a 
 word said Gypsy of the matter, and half an 
 hour passed and the supper-bell rang. 
 
 "There ! " said Gypsy, jumping up, " I do 
 declare if it isn't supper, and I've got these 
 burs to get off and my dress to mend and 
 my shoes and stockings to change, and Oh, 
 dear ! I wish people didn't ever have to do 
 things, anyway ! " 
 
 With this very wise remark, she walked 
 back across the ridge-pole and climbed in the 
 window. There was nothing for Tom to do 
 but follow ; which he did slowly and reluc- 
 tantly. Something would have to be said 
 now, at any rate. But not a syllabic said 
 Gypsy. She went to the looking-glass, and 
 began to brush her hair as unconcernedly as 
 if everything were just as she left it and pre- 
 cisely as she wanted it. 
 
 Torn passed through the room and cut of 
 the door; then he stopped. Gypsy's eyes
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES HEK. 25 
 
 begaa to twinkle as if somebody had dropped 
 two little diamonds iii them. 
 
 "I say," said Tom. 
 
 " What do you say ? " replied Gypsy. 
 
 "What do suppose mother would havo 
 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 ywirs old I " 
 
 " 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 does'nt stand for railroad." 
 
 "Does'nt? Well, what?" 
 
 w Regular Romp." 
 
 "Ohl*
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 
 
 CAN'T help it," said Gypsy, aftei 
 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 no fault of 
 yours, but hi every way a suitable and praise- 
 worthy condition of things that you should 
 keep your room looking as I would bo 
 ashamed to have a servant's room look, in 
 my house. People are never to blame for 
 what they can't help." 
 
 w Oh, there it is again I " said Gypsy, with 
 the least bit of a blush, " you always stop mo 
 right off with that, on every subject, from 
 saying my prayers down to threading q 
 needle." 
 
 26
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 27 
 
 "Your mother was trained in the new- 
 school theology, and she applies her princi- 
 ples to things terrestrial as well as things 
 celestial," observed her father, with an amused 
 smile. 
 
 "Yes sir," said Gypsy, without the least 
 idea what he was talking about. 
 
 r Besides," added Mrs. Breynton, finishing, 
 as she spoke, the long dam in Gypsy's dress ; 
 " I think people who give right up at little 
 difficulties, on the theory that they can't help 
 jt, are " 
 
 "Oh, I know that too! " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 n Cowards." 
 
 Exactly." 
 
 "I hate cowards," said Gyps}'-, in a little 
 flash, and then stood with her back hali 
 turned, her eyes fixed on the carpet, as if she 
 were puzzling out a proposition in Euclid, 
 somewhere hidden in its brown oak-leaves.
 
 28 GYPSY BKEYMTON. 
 
 w Tak.e a chair, and s*it by the window and 
 think of it," remarked Tom, in his most 
 aggravating tone. 
 
 "That's precisely what I intend to do, sir," 
 "said Gypsy ; and was as good as her word. 
 She went up-stairs and shut her door, and, 
 what was remarkable, nobody saw anything 
 more of her. What was still more remarka- 
 ble, nobody heard anything of her. For a 
 Mttle while it was perfectly still overhead. 
 
 w I hope she isn't crying," said Mr. Breyn- 
 ton, who was always afraid Gypsy was doing 
 something she ought not to do, and who was 
 in about such a state of continual astonish- 
 ment over the little nut-brown romp that had 
 been making such commotion in his quiet 
 home for twelve years, as a respectable 
 middle-aged and kind-hearted oyster might 
 be if a lively young toad were shut up in his 
 diell. 
 
 " Catch her I " said the more appreciative
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 2? 
 
 Tom ; " I don't believe she cries four times a 
 year. That's the best part of Gyp. ; with all 
 her faults, there's none of jour girl's nonsense 
 about her." 
 
 Another person in the room, who had 
 listened to the conversation, went off at this 
 period into a sudden fit of curiosity concern- 
 ing Gypsy, and started up-stairs to find her. 
 This was Master "Winthrop Breynton, famil- 
 iarly and disrespectfully known as "Winnie. 
 A word must be said as to this young person ; 
 for, whatever he may be in the eyes of othei 
 people, he was of considerable importance in 
 his own. He had several distinguishing 
 characteristics, as is apt to be the case with 
 gentlemen of his age and experience. Oao 
 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 impossi- 
 ble opportunity. Another was, that there
 
 30 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 were always, at least, half a dozen buttons off 
 from his jacket, at all times and places, 
 though his long-suffering mother lived in her 
 work-basket. A third, lay in the fact that he 
 never walked. He trotted, he cantered, he 
 galloped ; he progressed in jerks, in jumps, 
 in somersets ; he crawled up-stairs like a little 
 Scotch plaid spider, on " all fours ;" he came 
 down stairs on the banisters, the balance of 
 power lying between his steel buttons and the 
 smooth varnish of the mahogany. On several 
 memorable occasions, he has narrowly escaped 
 pitching head first into the hall lamp. His 
 favorite method of locomotion, however, con- 
 sisted in a series of thumps, beginning with a 
 gentle tread, and increasing in impetus by 
 mathematical progression till it ended in a 
 thunder-clap. A long hall to him was bliss 
 unalloyed ; the bare garret floor a dream of 
 delight, and the plank walk in the woodshed 
 an ecstasy. St'll a fourth peculiai ity was a
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER, 31 
 
 pleasing habit when matters went contrary to 
 his expressed wishes, of throwing himself full 
 length upon the floor without any warning 
 whatsoever, squirming around in his clothes, 
 and crying at the top of his lungs. Added to 
 "/his is the fact that, for some unaccount- 
 able reason, Winnie's eyes were so blue, and 
 Winnie's laugh so funny, and Winnie's hands 
 were so pink and little, that somehow or 
 other Winnie didn't get half the scoldings ho 
 deserved. But who is there of us that does, 
 for that matter ? 
 
 Well, Winnie it was who stamped across 
 the hall, and crawled up-stairs hand over 
 hand, and stamped across the upper entry, 
 and pounded on Gypsy's door, and burst it 
 open, and slammed in with one of Winnie's 
 inimitable shouts. 
 
 "Oh TFmnie!" 
 
 "I say, father wants to know if * 
 
 " Just see what you've done I "
 
 32 GYTSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Winnie stopped short, in considerable as- 
 tonishment. Gypsy was sitting on the floor 
 Leside one of her bureau drawers which she 
 had pulled out of its place. That drawer was 
 a sight well worth seeing, by the way ; but of 
 that presently. Gypsy had taken out of it a 
 little box (without a cover, like all Gypsy's 
 boxes) filled with beadwork, collars, cuffs, 
 nets, and bracelets, all tumbled in together, 
 and as much as a handful of loose be&ds 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 stepped directly 
 into the box, crushed its pasteboard flat, and 
 scattered the unlucky beads to all four point? 
 of the compass. 
 
 Gypsy sat for about half a minute watching 
 the stream of crimson and blue and black and 
 silver and gold, that was rolling away undo*
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 33 
 
 tho bed and the chair and the table, her face 
 a perfect little thunder-cloud. Then she took 
 hold of Winnie's shoulder, without any re- 
 marks, and shook him. 
 
 It was a little shake, and, if it had been 
 given in good temper, would not have struck 
 Winnie as anything but a pleasant joke. But 
 he knew, from Gypsy's face, it was no joke ; 
 and, feeling his dignity insulted, down he 
 went flat upon the floor with a scream and a 
 jerk that sent two fresh buttons flying oft" 
 from his jacket. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton ran up-stairs in a great 
 hurry. 
 
 "What's the matter, Gypsy?" 
 
 "She sh sh shookcd me the old 
 thing ! " sobbed Winnie. 
 
 " He broke my box and lost all my beads, 
 and I've got them all to pick up just as I 
 was trying to put my room in order, and so 
 I v^as mad," said Gypsy, frankly.
 
 34 GYPSr BBEYN1ON. 
 
 "Winnie, you may go down Efairs," said 
 Mrs. Breynton, " you must learn to be 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 my beads 
 were all in a muss, and so I thought I'd sort 
 them, and then I forgot." 
 
 " I see several things in the room lhat want 
 putting in order before a little box of beads." 
 said Mrs. Breynton, with a smile that was 
 half amused, 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 T thought I'd taken the br >om down stairs
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 3$ 
 
 as much as could be, but that everlasting Tom 
 
 had to go and Oh dear ! did you ever see 
 
 anything so funny in all your life?" And 
 Gypsy looked at the image, and broke into 
 one of her rippling laughs. 
 
 * It is really a serious matter, Gypsy," said 
 Mrs. Brcynton, looking somewhat troubled 
 at the laugh. 
 
 "I know it," said Gypsy, sobering down, 
 "and I came up-stairs on purpose to put 
 everything to rights, and then I was going to 
 live like other people, and keep my stockings 
 darned, and then I had to go head first' into 
 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 in order ; I've 
 told you so many times." 
 
 " I know it," said Gypsy, forlornly ; " don t 
 you remember when I was a little bit of a 
 thing, ny telling you that I guessed God
 
 36 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 made a mistake when he made me, and 
 put in some ginger-beer somehow, that was 
 always going off? It's pretty much so ; the 
 cork's always coming out at the wrong time." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Breynton, with a smile, 
 " I'm glad you're trying afresh to hammer it 
 in. Pick up the beads, and tear down the 
 image, and go to work with a little system. 
 You'll be surprised to find how fast the room 
 will come to order." 
 
 w I think," she added, as she shut the door, 
 "that it was hardly worth while to " 
 
 " To shake Winnie ? " interrupted Gypsy, 
 demurely. " No, not at all ; I ought to have 
 known better." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton did not offer to help Gypsy 
 in the task which bade fair to be no easy one, 
 of putting her room in order ; but, with a few 
 encouraging words, she went down stairs and 
 left her. It would have been far easier for her 
 to have gone to work and done the thing tar-
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 37 
 
 self, than to see Gypsy's face so clouded and 
 discouraged. But she knew it would be the 
 ruin of Gypsy. Her only chance of overcom- 
 ing her natural thoughtlessness, and acquiring 
 the habits of a lady, lay in the persistent 
 doing over and over again, by her own un 
 aided paticiur, these very things that came so 
 hard to her. Gypsy understood this perfectly, 
 and had the go->d scnso to think her mother 
 iras just right iibout it. It was not want ol 
 training, that g:ive Gypsy her careless fashioc 
 of looking after things. Mrs. Breynton was 
 a wise, as well as a loving mother, and had 
 done everything in the way of punishment, 
 reproof, warning, pursuasion, and argu- 
 ment, that mothers can do for the faults of 
 children. Nor was it for want of a good 
 example, Mrs. Breyuton was the very pink 
 of neatness. It was a natural kink in Gypsy .. 
 that was as hard to get out a^ a knot in as 
 ipple-trec, and which depended entirely on
 
 38 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 the child's own will for its eradication. This 
 disorder in her room and about her toilet 
 was only one dc\ elopment of it, and by no 
 means a fixed or continued one. Gypsy 
 could be, and half the time she was, as 
 orderly 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 to be 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, she lost her temper 
 every five minutes. Or else she was making 
 terrible blunders, and hurting people's feel- 
 ings ; something was always the matter ; and 
 some one was always on the qui vwe, wonder- 
 ing what Gj-psy was going to 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 York-bury. 
 Whether there was any reason for this, you 
 can judge for yourself as the story goes on.
 
 A SPASM OF OliDEIl. 39 
 
 After her mother had gone down, Gypsy 
 went to work in earnest. She picked up the . 
 beads, and put them back into the drawer 
 which she left upon the floor. Then she 
 attacked Tom's image. It took her fully fif- 
 teen minutes merely to get the thing to 
 pieces, for the true boy-fashion in which it 
 was tied, pinned, sewed, and nailed together, 
 would have been a puzzle to any feminine 
 mind. She would have called Tom up to 
 help her, but she was just a little bit too 
 proud. 
 
 The broom she put out in the entry the 
 first thing ; then, remembering that that was 
 not systematic, she carried it down stairs 
 and hung it on its nail. The shoes and the 
 dresses, the cape and the clcak, the tippet and 
 he hat, she put in thejr places ; the t<r a apron 
 and the unmended stockings sho Bumbled 
 iato her basket, then went back { I folded 
 them 'ip neatly ; she also made a jc raey iuU>
 
 40 GYPSY BREYNTON 
 
 he wood-shed expressly to put the hatchet 
 inhere it belonged, on the chopping-block, 
 By this time it was quite dark, but she lighted 
 ft lamp, and Avent at it afresh. Winnie came 
 tip to the entry door, and, at a respectful dis- 
 tance, told her they Avere " popping " corn 
 doAA'n stairs ; but she shook her head, and 
 proceeded A\ r ith her dusting like a hero. Tom 
 whistled for her up the chimney-flue ; but sho 
 only gave a little thump on the floor, and said 
 she AA r as busy. 
 
 It Avas like walking into a labyrinth to dis- 
 pose of the contents of that table-cloth. HOAV 
 to put aAvay the pencils and the rubber, \vhcn 
 the drawing-box AA r as lost ; JIOAV to collect al] 
 the cookcy-crumbs and Avrnderiug needles, 
 that slipped out of your finger as fast as you 
 look hold of them ; Avhere on earth to put 
 those torn geography leaves, that wouldn't stay 
 in the book, arid couldn't be thrown away ; 
 Where was the cork to the inkstand? and
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 4* 
 
 now should she hang up the riding-whip, witb 
 the string gone ? These were questions that 
 might well puzzle a more systematic mind 
 than Gypsy's. However, in due time, the 
 room was restored to an order that was de- 
 lightful to see, for, if Gypsy made up her 
 mind to a thing, she could do it thoroughly 
 and skilfully, and she returned to the bureau 
 drawer. This drawer was a fair specimen of 
 the rest of Gypsy's drawers, shelves, and cup- 
 boards, and their name was Legion. More- 
 over, it was an " upper drawer," and where is 
 the girl that does not know what a delicate 
 science is involved in the rearranging of these 
 upper drawers? So many laces, and half- 
 worn collars that don't belong there, are 
 always getting in ; loose coppers have such a 
 way of accumulating in the crevices ; all your 
 wandering pins and hair-pins make it a 
 rendezvous by a species of free-masonry utterly 
 inexplicable ; then your little boxes fit in so
 
 42 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 tightly, and never have room to open, and 
 are always getting their covers caught when 
 you shut the drawer , and, when you try to 
 keep them down, you pinch your fingers so. 
 
 Please to imagine, O orderly readers ! who 
 keep every pin in its proper place, the worst 
 looking upper drawer that your horrified 
 eyes ever beheld, 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 ; hand- 
 kerchiefs, under-sleeves, collars, both clean 
 and soiled, laces aud ribbons and bows 
 and nets ; purses aud old gloves, a piece of 
 soap, a pile of letters, scratched and scatter- 
 ing jewelry, a piece of dried cake, several 
 fans all covered with dust, and nobody knew 
 what not, in the lower strata, out of sight. 
 
 Gj^sy sat and looked r.t it for about two 
 minutes in utter despair. Then she just
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 43 
 
 turned the whole thing bottom upwards in a 
 groat heap on the floor, and began to investi- 
 gate matters, with her cheeks very red. 
 
 Presently, the family down stairs heard a 
 little scream. Winnie stamped up to seo 
 what was the matter. 
 
 w Why, I've found my grammar ! " said 
 Gypsy. " It's the one in marble covers I lost 
 ever ever so long ago, and had to get a new 
 one. It was right down at the bottom of the 
 drawer ! " 
 
 Pretty soon there was another little scream, 
 and Gypsy called down the chimney. 
 
 " Tom Breynton ! What do you think ? 
 I've found that dollar bill of yours you 
 thought 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 hap- 
 pened. 
 
 " I've cut ray hand," said Gypsy, faintly ;
 
 44 GYTSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 " tLere was a great heap of broken glass in 
 my drawer." 
 
 " Broken glass ! " 
 
 "Yes. Tin sure I don't know how it came 
 there ; I guess I was going to frame a pic- 
 ture." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton bound up her finger, and 
 went down again. She was no more than 
 fairly seated before there came from up- 
 stairs, not a scream, but one of the merriest 
 laughs that ever was heard. 
 
 "What is to pay, now?" called Tom, from 
 the entry. 
 
 w Oh, dear ! " gasped Gypsy ; " it's too funny 
 for anything ! If here isn't the carving-lcnifc 
 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 undcr-sleeves ! " 
 
 It was past Gypsy's bed-time when the 
 upper drawer was faiily in order and put
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 45 
 
 back ill its place. Three others remained to 
 go through the same process, as well as 
 wardrobe shelves innumerable. Gypsy, 
 with her characteristic impulsiveness, would 
 have sat up till twelve o'clock to complete 
 the work, but her mother said " No " very 
 decidedly, and so it must wait till to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Tom came in just as evciy thing was done, 
 and Gypsy had drawn a long breath and 
 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, de- 
 lidedly in the rough, as a general thing. 
 Fou need cutting down and polishing." 
 
 " And you to polish me ? Well, I like tho 
 looks of this room, any how. It is nice to
 
 46 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 have things somewhere where you won't trip 
 over them when you walk across the room 
 only if somebody else would pick 'em up for 
 me." 
 
 " How long do you suppose it will last ? " 
 asked Tom, with r.n air cf great supe- 
 riority. 
 
 " Tom," said Gypsy, solemnly ; " that's a 
 serious question." 
 
 " It might last forever if you have a mind 
 to have it, come now, Gyp., why not ? " 
 
 "That's a long time," said Gypsy, shaking 
 her head ; " I wouldn't trust myself two 
 inches. To-morrow I shall be in a hurry to 
 go to school ; then I shall be in a hurry to go 
 to dinner; then I shall be in a terrible hurry 
 to get off with Sarah Howe, 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 of those little black squares I've put them 
 into on the cushion."
 
 A SPASM OF ORDER. 47 
 
 Gypsy found herself iii a hurry the next 
 day and the next, and is likely to, to tho end 
 of her life, I am afraid. But she seemed to 
 have taken a little gasp of order, and for a 
 long time no one had any complaint to make 
 of Gj'psy's room or Gvnsv's toilet.
 
 OL 
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOK. 
 
 S \vill be readily supposed, Gypsy's 
 name was not her original one ; though 
 it might have been, for there have been 
 actual Billys and Sallys, who began 
 and ended Billys and Sallys only. 
 
 Gypsy's real name was an uncouth one 
 Jemima. It was partly for this reason, partly 
 for its singular appropriateness, that her 
 nickname had entirely transplanted the law- 
 ful and ugly one. 
 
 This subject of nicknames is a curiosity. 
 All rules of euphony, fitness, and commoo 
 
 48
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 49 
 
 sense, that apply to other things, are utterly 
 At fault here. A baby who cannot talk 
 plainly, dubs himself "Tuty," or "Dess," or 
 "Pet/' or w Honey," and forthwith becomes 
 Tuty, Dess, Pet, or Honey, the rest of his 
 mortal life. All the particularly cross and 
 disagreeable girls arc Birdies and Sunbeams. 
 All the brunettes with loud voices and red 
 hands, who arc growing up into the " strong- 
 minded women," arc Lilies and Effics and 
 Angelinas, and other etherial creatures ; 
 while the little shallow, pink -and -white 
 young ladies who cry very often and "get 
 nervous," are quite as likely to be royal 
 Constance, or Elizabeth, without any nick- 
 name at all. 
 
 But Gypsy's name had undoubtedly been 
 foreordained, so perfectly was it suited to 
 Gypsy. For never a wild rover led a more 
 'untamed and happy life. Summer and win- 
 ter, seed-time and harvest, found Gjpsy 3iit
 
 50 GYPSY BIIEYNTON. 
 
 in the open air, as many hours out of tho 
 twenty-four as were not absolutely bolted and 
 barred down into the school-room and dream- 
 land. A fear of the weather never entered 
 into Gypsy's creed ; tlrcnchings and freez- 
 ings were so many soap-bubbles, great fun 
 while they lasted, and blown right away by 
 dry stockings and mother's warm fire ; so 
 where was the harm ? A good brisk thunder- 
 storm out in the woods, with the lighting 
 quivering .all about her and the thunder 
 crashing over her, was simple delight. A 
 day of snow and sleet, with drifts knee- 
 deep, and winds like so many little knives, 
 was a festival. If you don't know the su 
 preme bliss of a two-mile walk on such a 
 day, when you have to shut your eyes, and 
 wade your way, then Gypsy would pity you. 
 Not a patch of woods, a pond, a brook, a 
 river, a mountain, in .the region (aid there, 
 in Vermont, there were plenty of them) , bul 
 Gypsy knew it by heart.
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 51 
 
 There was not a trout-brook for miles where 
 he had not fished. There was hardly a tree 
 F.ho hnd not climbed, or a fence or stone-AvaH 
 provided, of course, that it was away from 
 the main road and people's eyes that she 
 had not walked. Gypsy could row and skate 
 and swim, and play ball and make kites, and 
 coast and race, and drive, and chop wood. 
 Altogether Gypsy ^seemed like a very pretty, 
 piquant mistake ; as if a mischievous boy had 
 somehow stolen the plaid dresses, red cheeks, 
 quick wit, and little indescribable graces of a 
 girl, and was playing off a continual joke on 
 the world. Old Mrs. Surly, who lived oppo- 
 site, and wore green spectacles, used to roll 
 up her eyes, and say What would become of 
 that child? A whit cared Gypsy for Mrs. 
 Surly ! As long as her mother thought tho 
 sport and exercise in the open air a fine thing 
 for her, and did not complain of the torn 
 dresses oftener than twice a week, she would
 
 52 GrPSY BIIEYNTON. 
 
 roll her hoop and toss her ball under Mrs. 
 Surly 's very windows, and laugh merrily to 
 see the green glasses pushed up and taken 
 olf in horror at what Mrs. Surly termed an 
 "impropriety." 
 
 Therefore it created no surprise in the 
 family one morning, when school-time came 
 and passed, and Gypsy did not make her 
 appearance, that she was reported to be 
 "making a raft" down in the orchard- 
 swamp. 
 
 "Run and call her, "Winnie," said Mr. 
 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 the lane as fait 
 as his copper-toed feet could carry him. Tt 
 was quite a long lane, and a very pleasant one 
 in summer. There was a row of hazel-nut 
 bushes, always green and sweet, on ODQ side, 
 and a stone-wall on the other, with the broad
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOK. 5 
 
 leaves and tiny blossoms of a grape-vino 
 trailing over it. The lane opened into a 
 wide field which had an apple-orchard at 
 one end of it, and sloped down over quite a 
 little hill into a piece of marshy ground, 
 where ferns and white violets, anemones, and 
 sweet-flag grew in abundance. In the sum- 
 mer, the water was apt to dry up. In the 
 spring, it was sometimes four feet deep. It 
 was a pleasant spot, for the mountains 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 passing 
 shadows and fading sunsets. And, then, is 
 there any better fun than to paddle in the 
 water ? 
 
 Gypsy looked as if she thought not, when 
 Winnie suddenly turned the corner, and tan 
 down the slope. 
 
 She had finished her raft, and launched it 
 off from the root of an old oak-tree that grew
 
 54 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 half in the water, and, with a long pole, had 
 pushed herself a third of the way across the 
 swamp. Her dress was tucked up over her 
 bright balmoral, and the ribbons of her hat 
 were streaming in the wind. She had no 
 mittens or gloves on her hands, which were 
 very pink and plump, 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." 
 
 w I haven't had a ride on a raft since 
 why since 'leven or six years ago when I wag 
 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 you want a ride? * 
 
 "I want a, ride," said Winnie, withov* o;iy 
 hesitation.
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 55 
 
 * Wait till I turn her round. I'll bring hei 
 jp on the larboard side," replied Gypsy, in 
 the tone of an old salt of fifty years' experi- 
 ence. 
 
 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," said Gypsy, 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 
 bead, down in the water ! " observed Winnie. 
 
 They paddled on a little ways in silence. 
 
 " What makes your cheeks so red ? " asked 
 Gypsy. 
 
 " I guess its scarlet fever, or maybe its a 
 ippleplexy, you know." 
 
 K Oh ! " 
 
 Just then Winnie gave a little scream. 
 
 "Look here Gyp.! The boat's goin
 
 56 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 down. I don't want to go very much. 1 
 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, Win- 
 nie. Perhaps we'll get ashore." 
 
 But no sooner had she spoken the worda 
 than the water washed up about her ankles, 
 and Winnie's end of the raft went under. 
 The next she knew, they were both flounder- 
 ing in the water. 
 
 It chanced to be about three feet and a hfdf 
 deep, very cold, and somewhat slimy. Gyi> jy 
 had a strong impression that a frog jumped 
 into her neck when she plunged, head first, 
 into the deep mud at the bottom. A iter a 
 little splashing and gasping, she regained hei 
 feet, and stood up to her elbows in the water. 
 But what she could do, Winnie could not. 
 He had sunk in the the soft mud. and even if 
 he had had the courage to stand up straight,
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 57 
 
 the water would have been above his head. 
 But it had never occurred to him to do other* 
 wise than lie gasping and flat on the bottom, 
 where he was drowning as fast as he possibly 
 could. 
 
 Gypsy pulled him out and carried him 
 ashore. She wrung him out a little, and set 
 Mm down on the grass, and then, by way 
 of doing something, she took her dripping 
 handkerchief out of her dripping pocket and 
 wiped her hands on it. 
 
 "O o oh!" gasped Winnie; "I never 
 did you'd ought to know you've just 
 gone'n drownded me ! " 
 
 " What a story ! " said Gypsy ; " you're no 
 more drowned than I am. To be sure you 
 are rather wet," she added, with a disconso- 
 late attempt at a iaugh. 
 
 "You oughtn't to have tooken me out on 
 that old raft," glared Winnie, through the 
 hower of wator-droj s that rained down from
 
 58 GYPSY BltEYNTON. 
 
 his forehead, K you know you hadn't I I'll 
 just tell mother. I'll get sick and be died 
 after it, you see if I don't." 
 
 "Very well," said Gypsy, giving herself a 
 little shake, very much as a pretty 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 im- 
 pressive cough ; "you're late to school, 'cause 
 mother, she said you was to come right up 
 when she sent me down, only I well I 
 guess, I b'lieve I forgot to tell you, I 
 rather think I did. Anyways, you're late, 
 so / " 
 
 Gypsy looked at Winnie, and Winnie 
 looked at Gypsy. There was an awful 
 Bileiicc. 
 
 * Winnie Breynton," said Gypsy, solemnly, 
 * if you don't go* one whipping ! " 
 
 "I don't, care to hear folks talk,'' inter
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 58 
 
 rupted Winnie, with dignity, "I am five 
 years old." 
 
 Gypsy's reply is not recorded. 
 
 I have heard it said that when Tom espied 
 the two children coming up the lane, he went 
 to his mother svitU the information that the 
 fishinan was somewhere round, only he had 
 sent his fishes on ahead of him. They ap- 
 peared lo Lave been freshly caught, and 
 wouM, he thought, make several dinners , 
 but [ cannot take the responsibility of the 
 stofomont. 
 
 Ic was very late, much nearer ten o'clock 
 than nine, when Gypsy was fairly metamor- 
 phosed into a clean, dry, very penitent-looking 
 child. 
 
 She hurried off to school, leaving "Winnie 
 and his mother in close conference. Exactly 
 what happened on the occasion of that inter- 
 view, has never been made known to 01 
 inquiring public
 
 SO GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 On the way to school Gypsy had as raanj 
 as six sober thoughts ; a larger number than 
 she was usually capable of in forty-eight 
 hours. Oue was, that it was too bad she had 
 got so wet. Another was, that she really 
 supposed it was her business to know when 
 school-time came, no matter where she was 
 or what she was doing. Another, that she 
 had made her mother a great deal of trouble. 
 A fourth was, that she was sorry to be so 
 late at school it always made Miss Melville 
 look so ; and then a bad mark was not, on 
 the whole, a desirable thing. Still a fifth 
 was, that she would never do such a thing 
 again as long as she lived never. The 
 sixth lay in a va i: ant determination to behave 
 herself the rest of this particular day. She 
 would study hard. She would get to the 
 head of the class. She wouldn't put a single 
 pin in the girls' chairs, nor tickle anybody, 
 uor make up funny faces, nor whisper, noi
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. til 
 
 make one of the girls laugh, not one, not even 
 that silly Delia Guest, who laughed at noth* 
 ing, why, you couldn't so much as make 
 a doll out of your handkerchief and gloves, 
 and hang it on your pen-handle, but what she 
 had to go into a spasm over it. 
 
 Xo, she wouldn't do a single funny tiling 
 all clay. She would just sit still and look 
 sober and sorry, and not trouble Miss Mel 
 ville in the least. Her mind was quite made 
 up. 
 
 Just as she had arrived at this conclusior 
 she came 1o the school-house door. Gypsy 
 and a number of other girls, both her own 
 age and younger, who either were not pre- 
 pared to enter the high school, or whose par- 
 ents preferred the select school system, 
 composed Miss Melville's charge. They 
 were most of them pleasant girls, and Miss 
 Melville was an unusually successful teacher, 
 and as dearly loved as a judicious 1 cache?
 
 62 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 can be. The school-house was a bit of a 
 brown building tucked away under some 
 apple-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 taken 
 possession of it. 
 
 Gypsy slackened her pace as she passed 
 under the apple-boughs, where the tiny, 
 budding leaves filled all the air with faint 
 fragrance. It was nearly 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 a? penitently as Gypsy's 
 mouth could well be. 
 
 Just inside the door she stopped . A quick 
 color ran all over her face, her eyes began 
 to twinkle like sparks from a great fire of 
 ftickory, and, in an instant, every one of those 
 BIX sober thoughts was gone away somewhere
 
 was to be seen but a long row of girls' things ha;igvrcj upon the nau* : '
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 63 
 
 aolwdy could have told where; and th 
 funniest little laugh broke the silence of the 
 entry. 
 
 The most interested observer could not 
 have told what Gypsy saw that was so very 
 amusing. The entry was quite deserted. 
 Nothing was to be seen but a long row of 
 girls' f " things," hanging rip on the nails hats 
 and bonnets, tippets, sacks, rubbers, and 
 baskets ; apparently as demure and respecta- 
 ble 'as hats, bonnets, tippets, sacks, rubbers, 
 and baskets could be. Yet there Gypsy 
 stood for as much as a minute laughing away 
 quietly to herself, as if she had come across 
 some remarkable joke. 
 
 About ten minutes after, some one knocked 
 at the school-room door. Miss Melville laid 
 down her geography. 
 
 "Cape Ann, Cape Hatteras, Cape may 
 I go to the door?" piped little Cely Hunt, 
 holding up her hard Miss Melville nodded
 
 64 GYPSY BREYXTON. 
 
 and Cely went. She opened the door and 
 jumped. 
 
 " What's the matter, Cely ? Oh ! " For 
 there stood the funniest old woman that Cely 
 or Miss Melville had ever seen. She had on 
 a black dress, very long and very scant, that 
 looked as if it were made out of an old water- 
 proof cloak. Over that, she wore a curious 
 drab-silk sack, somewhat faded and patched, 
 with all the edges of the seams outside. Over 
 that, was a plaid rcd-and-grecn shawl, tied 
 about her waist. There was a little black 
 shawl over that, and a green tippet wound 
 twice around her throat with the ends tucked 
 In under the shawl. She had a pair of black 
 Qiits on her hands, and she carried a basket. 
 Her face no one could see, for it was covered 
 with a thick green veil, tied closely about her 
 bonnet. 
 
 Cely gave a little scream, and ran behind 
 ihe door. Miss Melville stepped down
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 65 
 
 from the platform, and went to meet the 
 visiior. 
 
 "Good arternoon," said the old woman, in 
 a very shrill voice. 
 
 "Good afternoon," said Miss Melville, 
 politely. 
 
 "I come to -see the young uus," piped the 
 old woman. "I ben deowu tcown fur some 
 eggs, an' I hecrd the little creaturs a say in' 
 of their lessons as I come by, an' thinks says 
 [ to myself, says I, bless their dear hearts, 
 I'll go in an' see 'em, says I, an' I'll thank ye 
 kindly for a seat, for I'm pretty nigh beat 
 out," 
 
 The scholars all began to laugh. Misa 
 Melville, somewhat reluctantly, handed her 
 visitor a chair by the door, but did not ask 
 her upon the platform, as the visitor seemed 
 to expect. 
 
 "There's a drefful draught here on my 
 neck,'" she muttered, discontentedly ; M an I'm
 
 56 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 terribly afflicted with rheumatiz mostly: 
 Can't see much of the young uns here, 
 Duther." 
 
 "I doubt if there is much here that will 
 interest you" observed Miss Melville, look- 
 ing at her keenly. " You may rest yourself, 
 and then I think you had better go. Visitors 
 always disturb the children." 
 
 " Bless their dear hearts ! " cried the old 
 woman, shrilly. "They needn't be afraid of 
 me / wouldn't hurt 'em. ILid a little angel 
 boy once myself; he's gone to Californy now, 
 an' I'm a lone, lorn widdy. I say little 
 gal ! " and the stranger pointed her finger (it 
 trembled a little) at Sarah Rowc, who had 
 grovm quite red in the face with her polite 
 efforts not to lauga. "Little gal, whar's yer 
 manners? laughin' at a poor ole crceturlike 
 me ! Come out here, and le's hear ye saj 
 that beautiful psalm of Dr. Watts now 1 
 
 " How doth the little busy bee '"
 
 MISS MELVJIJ.E'S VISITOR. 07 
 
 But just then something happened for which 
 the old woman and the scholars were 
 equally unprepared. Miss Melville looked 
 through the greeii veil straight into the old 
 woman's eyes, and said just one word. She 
 said it very quietly, and she said it without 
 a smile. It was 
 
 " Gypsy ! " 
 
 There was a great hush. Sarah Rowe waft 
 the first to break it. 
 
 r ' Why, that's my sack turned wrong side 
 out ! " 
 
 " And those are my mitts ! " said Agnes 
 Gay lord. 
 
 "If you please, Miss Melville, that's my 
 black shawl, I know 1t by the border," 
 piped a very little girl in mourning. 
 
 " I do believe that's my water-proof, and 
 Lucy's plaid shawl," giggled Delia Guest, 
 "Did you ever?" 
 
 "And my green veil," put in somebody 
 else, faintly.
 
 68 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 Miss Melville quietly removed the veil, 
 and Gypsy looked up with her mischief 
 bright all over her face. Her eyes fell, 
 however, and her cheeks flushed crimson, 
 when she saw the look about Miss Melville's 
 nouth. 
 
 "You may go and put away the things, 
 Gypsy," said Miss Melville, still without a 
 smile. Gypsy obeyed in silence. The girls 
 stopped laughing, and began to whisper to- 
 gether behind the desk-covers. 
 
 "The school will come to order," said Miss 
 Melville. " Cely, what is the largest river in 
 New England ? Next." 
 
 Gypsy hung up the things, and came slowly 
 back into the room. Miss Melville motioned 
 ber to her seat, but took no further notice of 
 her, Gypsy, silent and ashamed, took out her 
 spelling-book, and began to study. The girli 
 looked at her out of the corners of their eyes. 
 and everj- now and then Delia Guest broke out
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 69 
 
 afresh into a smothered laugh, but no one 
 gpoke 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 scat. Recess came, but Miss 
 Melville was busy writing at her desk, and 
 took no notice of her further than to tell the 
 group of girls, who had instantly clustered 
 buzzing and laughing about her, that they 
 were all to go out doors and play. They went, 
 and Gypsy sat still with her head behind the 
 desk-cover. Something in Miss Melville's 
 manner said, louder than words, that she was 
 displeased. It was a manner which made 
 Gypsy feel, for once in her life, that she had 
 uot one word to say. 
 
 She busied herself with her books, and 
 ried to look unconcerned when the scholars 
 came back. The arithmetic class recited, but 
 her teacher did not call for her ; the history 
 class, but no one spoke to Gypsy. The dis-
 
 70 GYPSY BUEYN'ION. 
 
 grace of this punishment was what Gypsy 
 minded the most, though it was no slight 
 thing to sec so many " absent " marks going 
 down on her report, when she was right in 
 the room and had learned her lessons. 
 
 After what seemed to her an interminable 
 time, the morning passed and the school broke 
 up. The children, controlled by that some- 
 thing in Miss Melville's manner, and by 
 Gypsy's averted head and burning cheeks, 
 left the 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 bellied 
 the desk-cover. Miss Melville laid d*>wn her 
 pencil, closed her own desk, and came and 
 oat down on the bench beside Gypsy. 
 
 w I wonder if you are as sorry as I am," 
 he said, simply.
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 71 
 
 Something very bright glittered on Gypay*a 
 lashes, and two great drops stood on her hot 
 cheeks. 
 
 " I don't see what possessed me ! " she said, 
 vehemently. " Why don't you turn me out 
 of school?" 
 
 w I did not think you could willingly try to 
 make me trouble," continued Miss Melville, 
 without noticing tho lust 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 her eyes. Gypsy 
 very seldom cried, but I fancy she came pretty 
 near it on that occasion. 
 
 "Miss Melville," she said, with an earnest- 
 ness that was comical, in spite of i"^lf ; "I 
 wish you'd please to scold me. I should feel 
 a great deal better." 
 
 * Scoldings won't do you much good/ ?*vd 
 Miss Melville, with a sad smile ; '* you
 
 72 GYPSY BREYN1OX. 
 
 cure your own faults, Gypsy. Nobody els 
 can do it for you." 
 
 Gyp s y turned around in a little passion of 
 despair. 
 
 "Miss Melville, / can't! It isn't in me 
 you don't know ! Here this very morning I 
 got late to school, tipping Winnie over in a 
 raft drenched through both of us, and 
 mother, so patient and sweet with the dry 
 stockings she'd just mended, and wasn't I 
 sorry ? Didn't I think about it all the way 
 to school the whole way, Miss Melville? 
 And didn't I make up my mind I'd be as 
 good as a kitten all day, and sit still like 
 Agnes Gay lord, 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 it all 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 you took off
 
 MISS MELVILLE'S VISITOR. 73 
 
 the veil, and I wished I hadn't done it. It's 
 just like me I never can help anything 
 
 anyhow." 
 
 "I think you can," said her teacher, kindly. 
 w Yon certainly had the power, when you stood 
 out there in the entry, to stop and think 
 before you touched the things." 
 
 " I don't know," said Gypsy, shaking hei 
 bead, thoughtfully ; " I don't believe I had." 
 
 " But you wouldn't do it again ? " 
 
 " I guess I wouldn't ! " said Gypsy, with an 
 emphasis. 
 
 "What you can do one tune, you can 
 another," said Miss Melville. 
 
 Gypsy was silent. 
 
 " There's one other thing about it," contin- 
 ued her teacher, " besides the impropriety of 
 playing such a trick in school hours that 
 is, that it was very unkind to me." 
 
 " Unkind ! " exclaimed Gypsy.
 
 74 GYTSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Melville, quietly, "un- 
 kind." 
 
 "AVhy, Miss Melville, I wouldn't be unkmd 
 to you for anything ! I love you dearly." 
 
 "Nevertheless, Gypsy, it was very unkind 
 to deliberately set to wor 1 : to annoy 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 rule of 
 the school, is always an unkindness to a 
 teacher. There is scarcely a girl in school 
 that might help me more than you, Gypsy, 
 if you chose." 
 
 " I don't see ho\v," said Gypsy, astonished. 
 
 "I do," said Miss Melville, smiling, "and I 
 always think a little vote of thanks to you, 
 when you are quiet and well-behaved. An 
 ordeily scholar has a great deal of influence. 
 The girls all love you, and are apt to do as 
 they see you do, Gypsy." 
 
 There was a little silence, in which Gypsy's
 
 MISS IC^LVILLE'S Y T SITOR. 75 
 
 eyes were wandering away under the apple- 
 boughs, their twinkling dimmed and soft. 
 
 At last she turned quickly, and threw her 
 arms about her teacher's neck. 
 
 " Miss Melvilk, if you'll give me one kiss, 
 I'll never be an old woman again, if I live as 
 long as Methuselah ! " 
 
 Miss Melville kissed her, and whispered 
 one or two little loving words of encourage- 
 ment, such as nobody but Miss Melville knew 
 how to say. But Gypsy never told what they 
 were. 
 
 "I believe there's a bolt left out of mo 
 somewhere," she said, as they left the school- 
 house together; "what do yon Pappose it is?" 
 
 "I*-, is the strong, iron bolt, 'stop and 
 think? Gypsy." 
 
 '" Um yes perhaps it is," said Gypsy, 
 and walked slowly home.
 
 CHAFFER IT. 
 
 GYPSY HAS A DREAM. 
 
 )ME, 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, laring aside his 
 Euclid; "I like your spunk. Rather think 
 111 go." 
 
 76
 
 GTPSY HAS A DUE AM. 77 
 
 Toin tossed on his cap and was ready. 
 Q t rpsy hurried away to array herself in the 
 complication of garments necessary to the 
 feminine adventurer, if she so much as crosses 
 the yard ; a continual mystery of Providence, 
 was this little necessity to Gypsy, and one 
 against which sli3 lived in a state of iucessant 
 rebellion. It was provoking enough to stand 
 there in her room, tugging and hurrying till 
 she was red hi the face, over a pair of utterlj 
 heartless and unimpressible rubbers, that 
 absolutely refused to slip over the heel of 
 her boot, and to see Tom through the win- 
 dow, with his hands in his pocket, ready, 
 waiting, and Impatient, alternately whistling 
 and calling for her. 
 
 "I never did I" said Gypsy, in no very 
 gentle tone. 
 
 w Hur ry up I " called Tom, Coolly. 
 
 " These old rubbers ! " said Gypsy. 
 
 " What's the matter?" asked her mother, 
 stopping at the door.
 
 78 GYPSY BKEYNT9X. 
 
 "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, Gyp?y ! 
 your boots are wet through ; of course the 
 mbbcrs won't go on." 
 
 "I didn't suppose that would make any 
 difference," said Gypsy, looking rather fool- 
 ish. "I got them wet this morning, down 
 at the swamp. I thought they were dry, 
 though ; I sat with my feet in the oven till 
 Patty drove me off. 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 shrill whistles came up 
 through the Avindow. " Everything's in u 
 jumble ! I'll be there as soon as I can." 
 
 She changed her boots, tossed on her tui>
 
 GYPSY IIAS A DREAM. 79 
 
 ban, whisked on her sack, and began to fasten 
 it with a jerk, when off came the button at 
 the throat, and rolled maliciously quite :mt 
 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 too bad, when 
 a body's trying to keep their things in order, 
 and do up all their mending, that things havo 
 to act so ! " 
 
 "I think you have been trying to be or- 
 derly," said her mother, helping her to pin 
 the offending sack about the throat, for there 
 was no time now to restore the wandering 
 button. "I have noticed a great improve- 
 ment in you ; but there's one tiling wanting 
 yet, that would have kept the button in its 
 place, and had the boots properly taken off 
 and dried at the right time." 
 
 w What's tluit?" asked Gypsy, in a great 
 hurry to go.
 
 80 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 " A little more thoroughness, Gypsy." 
 
 This bit of a lesson, like most of Mrs. 
 Breynton's moral teachings, was enforced 
 with a little soft kiss on Gypsy's forehead, 
 an*} a smile that was as unlike a s?rmcn 21 
 smile could be. 
 
 Gypsy gave two thoughts to it, while tt 
 lumped down stairs three steps at a thre 
 then, it must be confessed, she forgot it ec 
 tirely, in the sight of Tom coolly walking ofi 
 down the lane without her. But words thai 
 Mrs. Breynton said with a kiss did not sli| 
 away from Gypsy's memory "for good an 
 a'," as easily as that. She had her own littlo 
 places and times of private meditation, when 
 such things came up to her like faithful an- 
 gels, that are always ready to speak, if you 
 give them the chance. 
 
 Tom was still in sight, among the hazci-uut 
 bushes and budding grape-vines of the lane, 
 and Gypsy ran swifty after him. She was
 
 GYPSY HAS A DREAM. 81 
 
 fleet of foot as a young gazelle, and soon 
 overtook him. She had just stopped, pant- 
 ing, by his side, and was proceeding to make 
 some remarks which she thought his conduct 
 richly deserved, when the sound of some lit- 
 tle trotting feet behind them attracted their 
 attention. 
 
 " Why, Winnie Breynton ! " said Gypsy. 
 
 " Where are you going? " asked Tom, turn- 
 ing round. 
 
 "Oh, nowheres in particular," said Win- 
 nie, with an absent air. 
 
 "Well, you may just turn round and go 
 there, then," said Tom. "We don't want 
 any little boys with us this afternoon." 
 
 "Little boys /" said Winnie, with a terrible 
 look ; "I'm five years old, sir. I can buttou 
 my own jacket, and I've got a snow-shovel ! " 
 
 Tom walked rapidly on, and Gypsy with 
 him. A moment's reflection seemed to con- 
 vince Winnie that his company was not
 
 82 GYTSY BREYNTON. 
 
 wanted; and he disappeared among the hazel 
 nut bup'ies. 
 
 Gypsy and Tom were fast walkers, and 
 they Teachcd the pond in a marvellously 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 a German 
 word, meaning little mountain. There were 
 many of these elevations all along the val- 
 ley in which Yorkbury was situated. They 
 seemed to be a sort of stepping-stones to the 
 great, snow-crowned mountains, that towered 
 sharply beyond. The pond that nestled in 
 among the trees at the foot of the Kleiner 
 Berg was called the Kleiner Berg Basin. It 
 was a beautiful sheet of water, small and 
 still and sheltered, and a great resort of 
 pleasure-seekers because of the clouds oi 
 white and golden lilies that floated over it 
 in the hot summer months. IV [r. Breynton 
 owned a boat there, which was kept locked
 
 GYPSY I1AS A DUE AM. 83 
 
 to a liny wharf under the trees, and was very 
 often used by the children, although Tom 
 declared it was no better to fish in than a 
 wash-tub ; as a Vermont boy, used to the 
 trout-brooks up among the mountains, 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 a tube 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 a belt, and 
 brown pants, and a cap on wrong side 
 before." 
 
 "The little , he may just walk home 
 
 Jijhow," observed Tom, in his autocratic 
 style. "lie ought to be taught better than 
 to come where older peop^ are, especially 
 5i they don't want him."
 
 84 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 " I suppose he likes to have a boat-ride as 
 well as we do," suggested Gypsy. 
 
 " Winthrop ! " called Tom, severely. 
 
 Winnie's chin was on his little fat hand, 
 and Winnie's eyes were fixed upon the water, 
 and Winnie was altogether too deeply ab- 
 sorbed in meditation to deign a reply. 
 
 "Winnie, where did you come from?" 
 
 "Oh!" said Winnie, looking up, care- 
 lessly; "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 of action were his 
 own until they were made public, and when 
 they were made public she might have them. 
 
 "You may just get out of that boat," said 
 Tom, rather crossly for him. Wimiie hinted, 
 as if it were quite an accidental remark, that 
 he had no intention of doing so. He further- 
 more observed that he would be happy to
 
 GYPSY IIAS A DREAM. 85 
 
 take them to row. "Father said whoever 
 
 took the boat first was to have it." 
 
 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 his Avrath as in his dignity, 
 threw himself flat, and began to scream after 
 his usual musical fashion. 
 
 " It's too bad ! " said Gypsy. " Let him 
 0, Tom --do." 
 
 " He should have stayed where he was told 
 to," argued Tom, who, like most boys of his 
 age, had a sufficiently just estimate of the 
 importance of his own authority, and who 
 would sometimes do a very selfish thing 
 under the impression that it was his duty to 
 family and state, as an order-loving indi- 
 vidual and citizen. 
 
 "I know it isn't so pleasant to have him," 
 said Gypsy, " but it does make him so dread 
 fully happy."
 
 86 GYPSr BKEYNTON 
 
 That was the best of Gypsy ; she was as 
 generous a child as poor, fallen children of 
 Adam are apt to be ; as quick to do right as 
 she was to do wrong, and much given to this 
 fancy of seeing people "dreadfully happy." 
 I have said that people loved Gypsy. I arn 
 inclined to think that herein lay the secret 
 of it. 
 
 Then Gypsy never "preached." If she 
 happened to be right, and another person 
 wrong, she never put on superior airs, and 
 tried to patronize them into becoming as good 
 as she was. She made her suggestions in 
 such a straightforward, matter-of-fact way, 
 as if of course you thought so too, and sha 
 was only agreeing with you ; and was apt to 
 make them so merrily withal, that there was 
 no resisting her. 
 
 Therefore Tom, while pretending to cany 
 his point, really yielded to the influence of 
 Gypsy's kind feeling, in saying,
 
 GYPSY IIAS A DREAM. 87 
 
 "On the whole, Winnie, I've CGLQC to tho 
 conclusion to take you, on condition that you 
 always do as I tell you in future. And if 
 you don't stop crying this minute, you ^haV 
 go." 
 
 This rather ungracious consent was suf- 
 ficient to dry Winnie's tears and silence Win- 
 nie's lungs, and the three seated themselves 
 in the little boat, and started off in high spir- 
 its. It was a light, pretty boat, painted iu 
 bright colors, and christened The Dipper, a| 
 being an appropriate 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 ships sailing 
 over it, and such a shimmering, bright pho- 
 tograph of it in the water ; 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- dust about th
 
 88 GYPSY BKEYXTON. 
 
 oars, aad the bees were humming among the 
 buds on the trees, and the blue dragon-flies, 
 that skipped from ripple to ripple, seemed 
 to be having such a holiday. Altogether, 
 Gypsy felt like saying, with famous little 
 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 forth among the 
 lily-stems and the soft, purple shadows of the 
 maple-boughs, from which the perfumed scar* 
 let blossoms dropped like coral into the 
 water. Tom took off his cap, and leaned 
 lazily against the side of the boat ; Winnie, 
 interested in making a series of remarkable 
 faces at himself in the water, for a wonder sat 
 still, and Gypsy lay down across two scats, 
 with her face turned up watching the sky. 
 It was very pleasant, and no one seemed 
 inclined to talk.
 
 GYPSY HAS A DREAM. 89 
 
 "I wish I were a cloud," said Gypsy, sud- 
 denly, after a long silence. "A little white 
 cloud, with a silver fringe, and not have any- 
 thing to do but float round all day in the sun- 
 shine, no lessons nor torn dresses noi 
 hateful old sewing to do." 
 
 "S'posin' it thunder-stormed," suggested 
 Winnie. " You might get striked." 
 
 "That would be fun," said Gypsy, laugh- 
 ing. "I always wanted to see where the 
 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, and dropped right 
 into Gypsy's mouth (which most unpoetically 
 happened to be open) . 
 
 "Just think," said Gypsy, whose thoughts 
 corned to have taken a metaphysical turn,
 
 90 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "ol being a little red flower, that dies and 
 drops into the water, and there's never any 
 fruit nor anything, I wonder what it wa* 
 made for." 
 
 "Perhaps just to make you ask that ques- 
 tion," answered Tom ; and there was a great 
 deal more in the answer than Tom himself 
 supposed. This was every solitary word that 
 was said on that boat-ride. A little is so 
 much better than much, sometimes, and 
 goes a great deal further. 
 
 It seemed to Gypsy the pleasaritest boat- 
 ride she had ever taken ; but Tom became 
 tired of it before she did, and went up to the 
 house, carrying "Winnie with him. Gypsy 
 stayed a little while o row by herself. 
 
 "Be sure you lock the boat when you 
 come up," called Tom, in starting. 
 
 "Oh yes," said Gypsy, " 1 always do." 
 
 "Did you bring up the oars?" asked Torn, 
 ttt supper.
 
 GYPSY IIAS A DREAM. 91 
 
 * 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 con- 
 tents of his silver mug of milk exactly into 
 Tom's lap, and as this was the fourth time the 
 young gentleman had done that very thing, 
 \vithin three days, Tom's sentence was broken 
 off f jr auotlicr of a moro agitated nature. 
 
 That night Tom had a droam. 
 
 He thought the house was a haunted cas- 
 tle (he had, I ana sorry to say, been read- 
 ing novels in study hours) , and that the ghost 
 of old Baron Somebody who had defrauded 
 the beautiful Lady Somebody-else, of Kleiner 
 Berg Basin and the Dipper, in which it waa 
 supposed Mrs. Surly had secreted a blind kit- 
 ten, which it was somehow or other impera- 
 tively necessary should be drowned, for the 
 well-being of the beautiful and unfortunate 
 heiress, that the ghost of this atrouioii!
 
 92 GYTSY BEEYNTON. 
 
 Baron was going down stairs, with white silk 
 stockings on his feet and a tin pan on hia 
 head. 
 
 At this crisis Tom awoke, with a jump, 
 and heard, or thought ho heard, a slight 
 creaking noise in the entry. Winnie's cat, 
 of course ; or the wind rattling the blinds ; 
 nevertheless, Tom went to his door, and 
 looked out. lie was exceedingly sleepy, and 
 the entry was exceedingly dark, and, though 
 he had not a breath of faith in ghosts, not 
 he, was there ever a boy who had? and 
 though he considered such persons, as had, as 
 candidates for the State Idiot Asylum, yet it 
 must be confessed that even Tom was pos- 
 sessed of an imagination, and this imagination 
 certainly, for an instant, deluded him into the 
 belief that a dim figure was flitting down 
 Blairs. 
 
 " Who's there ? " said Tom, rather faintly. 
 
 There was no reply. A curious sound,
 
 GYPSY HAS A DREAM. 93 
 
 like the lifting of a distant latch by phantom 
 fingers, fell upon his car, then all was still, 
 
 w Stuff and nonsense ! " said Tom. Never- 
 theless, Toni wont to the head of the s'.-f$rs, 
 and looked down ; went to the foot of the 
 stairs, and looked around. The doors were 
 all closed as they had been left for the night. 
 Nothing was to be seen ; nothing was to bo 
 heard. 
 
 "Curious mental delusions one will have 
 when one is sleepy," said Tom, and went 
 back to bed, where, the reader is confi- 
 dentially informed, he lay for fifteen entire 
 minutes with his eyes wide open, speculating 
 on the proportion of authenticated ghost- 
 stories; to be sure, there had been some; 
 it was, perhaps, foolish to deny as much as 
 that. 
 
 After which, he slept the rest of the night 
 as soundly as young people of sixteen, who 
 we well and happy, arc apt to sleep.
 
 94 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 That n-glit, also. Gypsy had a dream. 
 
 She dreamed that Miss Melville sailed in 
 through the windoAv on au 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 Sunnier, 
 for advocating the coercion of the seceded 
 States, and that Tom had set Winnie afloat 
 on the Kleiner Berg Basin, in a milk -pitcher. 
 Winnie had tipped over, and was in immi- 
 nent danger of drowning, if indeed he w^ero 
 not past hope already, and Tom sat up in the 
 maple-tree, laughing at him. 
 
 Her mother appeared to have enlisted in 
 the Union army, and, her father being de- 
 tained in that characteristic manner by Mr. 
 Sunnier, there was evidently nothing to be 
 done but for Gypsy to go to Winnie's relief. 
 This she hastened to do with all possible 
 speed. She dressed herself under a remark- 
 able sense of not being able to find any but-
 
 GYPSY HAS A DREAM. 95 
 
 tons, aud of getting all her sleeves upon tho 
 wrong arm. She put on her rubber-loots, 
 because it took 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 pulling Winnie out. Sho 
 stopped to put on her sack, her turban, and 
 her blue veil. She also spent considerable 
 time in commendable efforts to pin on a lace 
 collar which utterly refused to be pinned, 
 and to fasten at her throat a velvet bow that 
 kept turning into a little green snake, and 
 twisting round her fingers. 
 
 When at length she was fairly ready, sho 
 left the house softly, under the impression 
 that Tom (who appeared to have the remark- 
 able capacity of being in the house and down 
 in the maple-trees at one and the same time) 
 would stop her if he heard her. 
 
 She ran down the lane and over the fields 
 and into the woods, where the Kleiner Berg
 
 96 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 rose darkly in front of her ; so at last, to the 
 Basin, which rippled and washed cm its shore, 
 and tossed up at her Teet an empty milk' 
 pitcher I 
 
 A horrible fear seized her. She had come 
 too late. Winnie was drowned. It was all 
 owing to that lace collar. 
 
 She sprang into the boat ; she floated away : 
 she peered down into the dark water. But 
 Tom laughed in the maple-tree ; and there 
 was no sign nor sound of Winnie. 
 
 She cried out with a loud cry, and awoke. 
 
 She lifted up her head, and saw
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHAT SHE SAW. 
 
 GREAT, solemn stretch of sky, alire 
 
 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 a moment 
 like one stumied. The terrible sense of 
 awakening in a desolate place, at midnight, 
 and alone, instead of in a safe and quiet bed, 
 with bolted doors, and friends within the 
 slightest call, might well alarm an older and 
 stouter heart than Gypsy's. The conscious- 
 ness of having wandered she did not know 
 whither, she did not know how, in the help- 
 lessness of sleep, into a place where her voice 
 
 could reach no human ear, was in itself 
 
 07
 
 98 GYPSY BREYKTON. 
 
 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 Kleiner Berg rolling 
 up, soft and shadowy, among its pines. 
 There were the mountains, towering and 
 sharp terrible shadows against the sky. 
 Here, too, was the Dipper beneath her, sway- 
 ing idly back and forth upon the water. She 
 remembered, with a little cry of joy, that the 
 boat was always locked ; she could not have 
 stirred from the shore ; it would be but the 
 work of a moment to jump upon the wharf, 
 then back swiftly through the fields to the 
 house. 
 
 She looked back. The wharf was not ill 
 sight. A dark distance lay between her and 
 it. The beds of Lly-leaves, and the dropping
 
 WHAT SHE SAW. 99 
 
 blossoms of the maples were about her on 
 every side. She had drifted half across the 
 pond. 
 
 Sho understood it all in a moment she 
 had not locked the boat that afternoon. 
 
 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. Sho tried to pull up the 
 board seats of the boat, under the impression 
 that she could, by degrees, paddle herself 
 ashore with one of them. But they were 
 nailed tightly in their places, and she could 
 not stir them. Evidently, there was nothing 
 to be done. 
 
 Perhaps the boat would drift ashore some 
 where; she could land anywhere; even or> 
 the steep Kleiner Berg side she could easily 
 have found footing; she was well used to 
 climbing its narrow ledges, and knew every 
 crack and crevbe and projection where a step
 
 100 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 could bo taken. But, no ; the boat was no! 
 going to drift ashore. It had stopped in a 
 tangle of lily-leaves, far out in the water, and 
 there was not a breath of wind to stir it. If 
 the water had not been deep she could have 
 waded ashore ; but her practised ear told her, 
 from the sound of the little waves' against her 
 hand, that wading was not to be thought of. 
 To be sure, Gypsy could swim ; but a walk 
 of half a mile in drenched clothes was hardly 
 preferable to sitting still in a dry boat, to say 
 nothing of the inconvenience of swimming in 
 crinoline, and on a 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, and slipped down 
 into the bottom of the boat, thinking she 
 might lie with her head under the stern-seat, 
 and thus be somewhat shielded from the 
 chilly air. In turning up her sack-collar, to
 
 WIIAT SIIE SAVT. 101 
 
 protect her throat, she touched something 
 soft, which proved to be the lace collar. 
 This led her to examine her dress. She now 
 noticed for the first time that one stocking 
 was drawn up over her hand, the other sho 
 had probably lost on the way, and that sho 
 had put her bare feet into rubber-boots. The 
 lace collar was fastened by a bit of green che- 
 nille she sometimes wore at her throat, and 
 which had doubtless been the snake of her 
 dream. 
 
 Lonely, frightened, and cold as she was, 
 Gypsy's sense of the ludicrous overcame hei 
 at that, and she broke into a little laugh. 
 That laugh seemed to drive away the mys- 
 tery and terror of her situation, in spite of 
 the curious sound it had in echoing over tho 
 lonely water ; and Gypsy set herself to work 
 with her usual good sense to see how matters 
 stood. 
 
 "In the first place," she reasoned, talking
 
 102 GYPSY BREYNTON 
 
 half aloud foi the sake of the company of her 
 own voice, "I've had a fit of what the dic- 
 tioDary calls somnambulism, I suppose. I 
 eat too much pop-corn after supper, and that's 
 the whole of it, it always makes me dream, 
 only I never was goose enough to get out 
 of bed before, and I rather think it'll be some 
 tune before I do again. I came down stairs 
 softly, and out the back door. Nobody heard 
 me, and of course nobody will hear me till 
 morning, and I'm in a pretty fix. If I hadn't 
 forgotten to lock the boat I should be back 
 in bed by this time. Oh dear ! I wish I 
 were. However, I'm too large to tip myself 
 over and get drowned, and I couldn't get 
 hurt any other way ; and there's nothing tc 
 be afraid of if I do have to stay here till 
 morning, except sore throat, so there's no 
 great harm done. The worst of it is, that 
 old Tom ! Won't he laugh" at me about the 
 boat ! I never expect to bear t'a^ crd of 't.
 
 WHAT SHE SAW. 103 
 
 Then when they go to my room and find mo 
 gone, in the morning, they'll be frightened. 
 I'm rather sorry for that. I wish I knew 
 what time it is." 
 
 Just then the distant church-clock struck 
 two. Gypsy held her breath, and listened to 
 it. It had a singular, solemn sound. She 
 had never heard the clock strike two in the 
 morning but once before in her life. That 
 was once when she was very small, when her 
 (ather was dangerously sick, and the comi.'ig 
 of the doctor had wakened her. She had al- 
 ways somehow associated the hour with mys- 
 terious flickering lights, and anxious whispers 
 and softened steps, and a dread as terrible nb 
 it was undefined. NOAV, out here in this des- 
 olate place, where the birds were asleep in 
 their nests, and the winds quiet among the 
 mountain-tops, and the very frogs tired of 
 their chanting, herself the only waking 
 thing, these two far, deep-toned syllables
 
 J04 GYPSY BEEYNTON. 
 
 seemed like a human voice. Like the voice, 
 Gypsy fancied, of some one imprisoned for 
 year* in the belfry, and crying to get out. 
 
 Two o'clock. Three four five six. 
 At about six they would begin to miss her ; 
 her mother always called her, then, to get up. 
 Four hours. 
 
 "Hum, well," said Gypsy, drawing her 
 sack-collar closer, "pretty long time to sit 
 out in a boat and shiver. It might be worse, 
 though." Just then her foot struck some- 
 thing soft under the seat. She pulled it out, 
 and found 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. She wrapped it closely around her 
 shoulders, curled herself up snugly in the 
 item, and presently pronounced herself "as 
 wa/rn as toast, and as comfortable as an 
 oyster." 
 
 Then she began to look about her. All
 
 WIIAl' SIE SAW. 105 
 
 around and undcrueatli her lay the black, 
 still water, so black that the maple-branch- 
 es cast no shadow on it. 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 long night 
 through. Overhead, the stars glittered and 
 throbbed, and shot in and out of ragged 
 clouds. Far -up in the great forests, that 
 climbed the mountain-sides, the wind was 
 muttering like an angry voice. 
 
 Somehow it made Gypsy sit very still. 
 She thought, if she were a. poet, she would 
 write some verses just then ; indeed, if she 
 had had a pencil, I am not 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. Sho 
 might have gone to the saw-mill, and been 
 caught and whirled to death in the machin*
 
 106 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 ery. She might have gone to the bridge over 
 the river, aiid thrown herself off, not knowing 
 what she did. Or, what if the pond had been 
 a river, and she were now floating away, 
 helpless, out of reach of any who came to 
 save her, to some far-off dam where the water 
 roared and splashed on cruel rocks. Or sha 
 might, in her dream, have tipped over the boat 
 where where the water was deep, and been un- 
 able to swim, encumbered by her clothing. 
 Then she might have been such a girl as 
 Sarah Eowe, who would have suffered ago- 
 nies of fright at waking to find herself in such 
 a place. But she had been led to the quiet, 
 familiar Basin, and no harm had come to her, 
 ,ind she had good strong nerves, and lost all 
 her fear in five minutes, so that the mischance 
 would end only in fin exciting adventure, 
 which would give her [something to talk about 
 as long as she lived. 
 
 Well ; she was sure she was very thankful
 
 WHAT SHE SAW. 107 
 
 Co whom? and Gypsy bowed her head a 
 little at the question, and she sat a moment 
 rery still. 
 
 Then she had other thoughts. She looked 
 up at the shadowed mountains, and thought 
 how year after year, summer and winter, 
 day and night, those terrible masses of rock 
 had cleaved together, and stood still, and 
 caught the rains and the snows and vapors, 
 the golden crowns of sunsets and sunrisiugs, 
 the cooling winds and mellow moonlights, 
 and done all their work of beauty and of 
 use, and done it aright. " JVot one faileth" 
 No avalanche ha'd thundered down their sides, 
 destroying such happy homes as hers. No 
 volcanic fires had torn them into scethiug 
 lava. No beetling precipice, of which sho 
 ever heard, had fallen and crushed so much 
 aa the sheep feeding in tho valleys. To the 
 power of the hills as to the power of the
 
 108 GYPSr 
 
 seas, Someone had said, Thus far shall thou 
 go, and no farther. 
 
 And the Hand that could uphold a moun 
 tain in its place, was the Hand that had 
 guided her one little foolish, helpless girl, 
 out of millions and millions of creatures for 
 whom He was caring in the wanderings of 
 an uneasy sleep that night. 
 
 There was a great awe and a great joy in 
 this thought ; but sharp upon it came an- 
 other, as a pleasure is followed by a sudden 
 pain, a thought that came 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 and sleepy, 
 and the lamp went out, and so, and so, 
 well, she didn't know exactly how it came 
 about. 
 
 Gypsy's bowed head ibll into her hands, 
 and there, crouched in the lonely boat, under 
 the lonely sky, she put this thought into a
 
 W1IAT tillfi SAW. 109 
 
 i w whiskered words, and I know there was 
 C oe to hear it. 
 
 Other thoughts had Gypsy after this ; but 
 tl n y Avcre those she could not have put into 
 ;ixls. For three of those solemn, human 
 e^ lablcs had sounded from the distant clock, 
 an I far over the mountain-tops the sweet sum- 
 mi r dawn was coming. Gypsy had never 
 sc< 11 the sun rise. She had seen to be sure, 
 mt ay times, the late, winter painting of 
 cri ason and gold in the East, which unfolded 
 itsi If before her window, and chased away 
 hci dreams. But she had never watched 
 tha ', slow, mysterious change from midnight 
 to morning, which is the only spectacle that 
 can properly be called a sunrise. 
 
 There was something in Gypsy that made 
 her 3it like a statue there, wrapped in Tom's 
 old coat, her face upturned, and her very 
 breath held in, as the heary shadows soft- 
 tenod and melted, and the stars began to dim
 
 110 GYPSY BltKYNTOST. 
 
 111 a pale, gray light, that, fell and folded 
 in the earth like a mist ; as the clouds, that 
 floated faintly over the mountains, blushed 
 pink from the touch of an nuscen sun ; as 
 the pink deepened into crimson, and the 
 crimson burned to fire, and the outlines of 
 the mountains were cut in gold ; as the gold 
 broadened and brightened, and stole over the 
 ragged peaks, c,nd shot down among the for- 
 ests, and filtered through the maple-leave&, and 
 chased the purple shadows far clown among 
 the valleys ; as the birds twittered in unseen 
 nests, and the crickets chirped in the mead 
 ows, and the dews fell and sparkled from 
 nodding grasses, and "all the world grow 
 green again." 
 
 Gypsy thought it was worth an ugly dream 
 and a little fright, to see such a sight. She 
 wondered if those old pictures of the great 
 masters far away over the sea, of which she 
 had heard so much, were anything Hko it.
 
 \VIIAT SIIE .SAW. Ill 
 
 SLe also had a faint, flitting notion that, in a 
 world where there were sunrises every day, 
 it was very strange people should ever bo 
 oross, and tear their dresses, and forget to 
 lock boats. It seemed as if they ought to 
 know better. 
 
 Just then Gypsy fell asleep, with her head 
 on the bottom of the boat ; and the next she 
 knew it was broad day, and a dear, familiar 
 voice, from somewhere, 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 into an 
 old mud-scull, that lay floating among tho 
 bushes, and paddlec! up to her before she 
 was wide enough awake to speak. 
 
 " Why, Gypsy Breyuton ! " 
 
 "I've been walking in my sleep," said 
 orypsy, with a little laugh ; " I came out her
 
 112 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 to save \Vimiie from upsetting iu a milk- 
 pitcher, and then I woke up, and I did for- 
 get 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 was rather cold, and 
 I didn't know where I was at first, and I 
 well, I'm glad you'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 his face. 
 
 "I can't talk about it, Gypsy I ca/i7, 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 bo a
 
 WHAT SIIE SAW. 113 
 
 somnambulist ? " asked Mr. Brcynton. This 
 ivas the first time he had remembered to bo 
 worried over any of Gypsy's peculiarities all 
 day. He had spent so much time in looking 
 at her, and kissing Her, and wiping his spec- 
 tacles. 
 
 "No, indeed," said her mother; "it was 
 nothing in the world but popped 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 the boat. She 
 was likely enough to remember the incident. 
 She had, perhaps, received a severe punish- 
 ment for so slight a negligence, but the reader 
 may rest assured that the boat was always 
 Locked thereafter when Gypsy had anything 
 to do with it.
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 UP IN THE APFLE-TBEB. 
 
 )YPSY ! 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 old branch, there was a little 
 flutter of a crimson and white gingham dress, 
 and a merry face peeping clown through tho 
 dainty pink blossoms that blushed all over 
 the tree. It looked so pretty, framed in by 
 the bright color and glistening sunlight, and it 
 
 111
 
 " High up on a gnarled old branch, there ivas a little flutter of 
 crimson and white gingham dress."
 
 UP IN THE APPLE-TREE. 115 
 
 accrued to fit in so exactly with the fragrance 
 and the soft, dropping petals, and the chirp- 
 ing of the blue-birds overhead, that I doubt 
 if even Mr?. Surly would have had the heart 
 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 ! I pity your 
 ma what a sight of traiiiiii' she must ha' 
 wasted on you ! " 
 
 "It looks nice up there," said Winnie, 
 admiringly, looking up with his mouth open ; 
 * I'm acomin' up." 
 
 w Vciy well," said Gypsy. 
 
 Winnie assailed a low-hanging bough, and 
 crawled half way up, Avhere he stopped. 
 
 " Why don't you come ? " said Gypsy. 
 
 " Oh, I well, I think I like it better down 
 acre. You can sec the grass, and things. 
 There's a black grasshopper here, too." 
 
 "What do you want, anyway?" asked
 
 116 GYPSY BKEYXTON-. 
 
 Gypsy, taking a few spasmodic stitches en a 
 long, white seam ; " I'm busy. I can't talk to 
 little boys when I'm sewing." 
 
 w Oh, I guess I don't want anythin', very 
 much," said Winnie, folding his arms com- 
 posedly, as if he had seated himself for the 
 day ; "I'm five years old." 
 
 Down went Gypsy's work, and a whole 
 handful of pink and white blossoms came 
 fluttering into Winnie's eyes. 
 
 "How am I going to sew?" said Gypsy, 
 despairingly ; " you're so exactly in the right 
 place to be hit. I don't believe Mrs. Surly 
 herself could help snowballing you." 
 
 w 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 grass- 
 hopper's wings, and frow him in a milk-pan, 
 what would he do?" remarked Winnie, in-
 
 UP IN THE APPLE-TREE. 117 
 
 dining to metaphysics, as was Winnie's cus- 
 tom when he wasn't wanted. Gypsy took 
 several severe stitches, and made no answer. 
 
 "Gypsy if somebody builded afire iu- 
 side of me and made steam, couldn't I draw 
 a train of cars ? " 
 
 " Look here Gyp., when a cat eats up a 
 mouse " 
 
 Winnie forgot what he was aiming at, just 
 ihere, coughed, and began again. 
 
 " Samson could have drawed a train 01 
 cars, anyway." 
 
 w Oh, Winnie Breynton I " 
 
 "Well, if he had a steam-leg, he'd be jest 
 as good as an engine wouldn't^ like to seen 
 him ! " Just then a branch struck Winnie's 
 head with decidedly more emphasis than the 
 handful of blossoms, and Winnie slid to the 
 ground, and remarked, with dignity, that he 
 was sorry he couldn't stay longer. He would 
 coine again another day. About half way up
 
 118 OYTSY BREYXTON. 
 
 the walk, ho stopped, and turned leisurely 
 round. 
 
 w Oh Gypsy ! Mother want's to know 
 w here's the key of the china-closet she let 
 you have. She's in a great hurry. That's 
 what I come down for ; I s'poscd there was 
 something or nuthcr." 
 
 " Why, Winnie Breynton ! and you've been 
 sitting there all this - " 
 
 "Where's the key?" interrupted Winnie, 
 severely ; " mother hadn't ought to be kept 
 waitin'." 
 
 "It's lip-stairs in in, I guess in my slip- 
 pers," said Gypsy, stopping to think. 
 
 "Yes. I was afraid I should forget to put 
 it up, so I put it in my slipper, because T 
 should feel it, and remember it. Then I 
 took off the slippers, .and that was the last 1 
 thought of it." 
 
 "It V9.9 ^ry careless," said Winnie, with
 
 UP IN THE APPLE-TREE. 119 
 
 a virtuous air. It was noticeable that ho 
 took good care to bo out of hearing cf 
 Gypsy's reply. 
 
 Gypsy returned to her seam, and the apple- 
 blossoms, and to her own little meditations 
 about the china-closet key ; which, being of 
 a private and somewhat humiliating nature, 
 are not given to the public. 
 
 The apple-tree stood in one corner cf a 
 very pleasant garden. Mr. Breyntou had a 
 great fancy for working over his trees and 
 flowers, and, if he had not been a publisher 
 and bookseller, might have made a very suc- 
 cessful landscape-gardener. Poor health had 
 driven him out of the professions, and the 
 tastes of a scholar drove him away from out- 
 door life ; he had compromised 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 rathe!
 
 120 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 duL , but his wife loved the old home, the 
 children were comfortable and happy, and he 
 himself, he thought, was getting rather old to 
 start out on any new venture elsewhere ; so 
 Yorkbury seemed likely to be the family nest 
 <br life. 
 
 It was the same methodical kind-hearted- 
 ness that made him at once so thoughtful and 
 tender a father, and yet so habitually worried 
 by the children's little failings, that gave him 
 his taste for beautiful flowers and shrubbery, 
 and his skill in cultivating them. This gar- 
 den was his pet enterprise. It was gracefully 
 laid out with winding walks, evergreens, 
 fruit-trees, and flower-beds ; not in stiff 
 patterns, but with a delightful studied neg- 
 ligence, such as that with which an artist 
 would group the figures on a landscape. 
 Rocks and vines and wild flowers were 
 scattered over the garden very much as they 
 would be found in the fields ; stately roses
 
 IIP IN THE APPLE-TREE. 121 
 
 and dahlias, delicate heliotrope and aruto* 
 eratic fuchsias, would grow, side by side, 
 with daises and buttercups. But, best of all, \ 
 Gypsy liked this corner where the golden 
 russet stood. A bit of a brook ran across it, 
 which had been caught in a frolic one day, as 
 it went singing away 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 their season slender 
 hairbells bent over, casting little blue shad- 
 ows into the water; the apple-boughs, too, 
 hung over it, and flung down their showera 
 of pearls and rubies, when the wind was 
 high. Moreover, there was a statue. This 
 statue was Gypsy's pride and delight. It 
 was Aladdin's Palace, the Tuillerics, Ver- 
 sailles, and the Alhambra, all in one. The 
 only fault to be found with it was that it was 
 not marble. It was a species of weather- 
 proof composition, but very finely car?ed,
 
 122 GYPHY BKEYNTON. 
 
 and much valued by Mr. Breyuton. It was 
 a pictty thing a water- nympth rising from 
 an unfolded lily, with both hands parting her 
 long hair from a wondering face,, that, pleased 
 with its own beauty, was bent to watch its 
 redecl ion in the water. 
 
 Altogether, the spot was so bewitching, 
 that it is little wonder Gypsy's work kept 
 dropping into her lap, and her eyes wander- 
 ing' away somewhere into dreamland. 
 
 One of those endless seams on a white 
 skirt that you have torn from the placket to 
 the hem, is not a very attractive sight, if you 
 nave it to mend, 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 stitch- 
 ing." Winnie was hardly in the house, be- 
 tore Sarah Howe came out in the garden to 
 hunt her up. 
 
 M 0h, dear," said Gypsy, as Sarah's face
 
 UP /N THE AI'I'L^-TKEL:. 123 
 
 appeared under the apple-boughs ; " I'm not 
 a bu glad to see you." 
 
 " That's polite," said Sarah, reddening ; 
 * I'll go home again." 
 
 "Look," snid Gyps}-, laughing ; "just set 
 what I've got to mend, and I came out here 
 on purpose to get it done, so I could come 
 over to your house. You see I oughtn't to 
 be glad to sec you at all, but I am exceed- 
 ingly." 
 
 Sarah climbed up, and sat down beside her 
 on a long, swaying bough . 
 
 "Xow 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, Saturday afternoons?" 
 
 "Why, it's my mending: mother wants 
 me to do it Saturday morning, and of course 
 it's a great deal easier, because then you have 
 All the afternoon to yourself; only I never
 
 124 GYPSY BREl'XTON. 
 
 Eceni to get time; I'm sure I dont 
 why. This morniug I had my history topiet 
 to write." 
 
 w Why, I wrote mine yesterday ! " 
 
 "I meant to, but I forgot; Miss Melville 
 said I mustn't put it off another day. 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 wouMn't be good for 
 me." 
 
 "How did you tear such a great place, I'd 
 like to know?" 
 
 " Put my foot right through it," said Gypsy, 
 disconsolately. " It was hanging on a chair, 
 and I just stepped in it and started to run, 
 and down I went, and here's the skirt. I 
 was running after the cat. I'd put her under 
 my best hat, and she was spinning down 
 stairs. You never saw anything so fiumyJ
 
 UP IN THE APPLE-TREE. 125 
 
 I'm always doing such things, I mean like 
 the skirt. I do declare ! you mustn't talk." 
 
 "I'm not," said Sarah, laughing; "it's you 
 I hat arc talking. You haven't sewed a stitch 
 for five minutes, either." 
 
 Gypsy sighed, and her needle began to fly 
 savagely. There was a little silence. 
 
 "You see," said Gypsy, breaking it, "I'm 
 trying to reform." 
 
 "Reform?" said Sarah, with some vague 
 ideas of Luther and Mclancthoii, and Gypsy's 
 wearing a wig and spectacles, and reading 
 Crudcn's "Concordance." 
 
 "Yes," nodded Gypsy, "reform. I never 
 knew anybody need it as much as I. I never 
 do things anyway, and then I do them wrong, 
 and then I forget all about them. Mother 
 says I'm improving. She says my room used 
 to look like a perfect Babel, and now I keep 
 the wardrobe door shut, and dust it out 
 ometimes. Then there's my mending. I
 
 126 GYPSY BllEYNTON. 
 
 caDic out hero so's to be quiet and keep at it. 
 The poor clear woman is so afraid I won't 
 leam to do things 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 AVC can go 
 down to the swamp and sail. Couldn't you 
 take a little bigger stitches ? " 
 
 "No," said Gypsy, resolutely; "I should 
 have to rip it all out. I'm going to do it 
 right, if it takes me all day." 
 
 Gypsy began to sew with a will, and Sa- 
 rah, finding it was for her OAVH interest in the 
 end, stopped talking ; so the fearful seam 
 was soon neatly finished, the work folded up, 
 and the thimble and scissors put away care- 
 fully in the little green reticule. 
 
 "I lose so many thimbles, you don't 
 know!" observed Gypsy, by way of com
 
 UP IN TILE Al'i'Llv-TltEE. 127 
 
 aicnt. "I'm going to see if I can't keep tliia 
 one three months." 
 
 <: Xow let's go," said Sarah. 
 
 " In a minute ; I must cany my work up 
 .irst. I'm going to jump off it's real fun. 
 You sec if I don't go as far as that dande 
 lion." 
 
 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 the water-nymph 
 heavily, and it fell with a crash into the 
 water, where the pared bottom was hard 
 ;s rock. 
 
 "Just sec whiit you've done ! " said Sarah, 
 who had not a capacity for making comfort- 
 ing remark?. ' What do you suppose your 
 father will say ? " 
 
 Gypsy stood aghast. The water gurgled 
 over the fallen statue, whose pretty, upraise* 1
 
 128 GIPSY BREYXT6N. 
 
 hands were snapped at the wrist, and thi- 
 wondering face crushed in. There was a 
 moment's silence. 
 
 "Don't you tell!" said Sarah, at length, 
 "nobody saw it fall, and they'll never think 
 you did it. You just seem surprised, and 
 keep still about it." 
 
 Gypsy flushed to her forehead. 
 
 " Why, Sarah Howe ! how can you say such 
 a thing? I wouldn't tell a lie for anything in 
 this world ! " 
 
 " It wouldn't be a lie ! " said Sarah, looking 
 ashamed and provoked. "You needn't say 
 you didn't do it." 
 
 " It would be a lie ! " said Gypsy, decid 
 cdly. "He'd ask if anybody knew, 1 
 wouldn't be so mean, even if I knew he 
 couldn't find out. I am going to tell hirn 
 this minute." 
 
 Gypsy started off, with her checks still 
 very red, up the garden paths and down tb
 
 UP IX TILE APPLE-TREE. 129 
 
 road, and Surah followed slowly. Gypsy's 
 sonsc of honor had received too great a shock 
 for her to take pleasure just then in Sarah's 
 company, and Sarah had an uneasy sense of 
 having lowered herself in her friend's eyea , 
 so the two girls separated for the afternoon. 
 
 It was about a mile to Mr. Brcyntou's store. 
 The afternoon was warm for the season, and 
 the road dusty ; but Gypsy ran nearly all the 
 way. She was too much troubled about the 
 accident to think of anything else, and in as 
 much haste to tell her father as some children 
 would have been to conceal it from him. 
 
 Old Mr. Sinims, the clerk, looked up ovei 
 his spectacles in mild astonishment, as Gypsy 
 entered the store flushed, and panting, and 
 pretty. To Mr. Sinims, who had no children 
 of his own, and only a deaf wife and a lame 
 dog at home for company, Gypsy was always 
 pivtty always "such a wonderful develop-
 
 t30 GYTSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 tnenl for a young person," and always ju&i 
 about right in whatever she did. 
 
 "Why, good afternoon, Miss Gypsy," eaid 
 Mr. Simms ; " I'm surprised to see you such a 
 warm day very much surprised. But you 
 always were a remarkable young lady." 
 
 "Yes," panted Gypsy; "whore's father, 
 Mr. Simms?" 
 
 "He's up in the printing-room just now, 
 talking with the foreman. Can I carry any 
 message for you, Miss Gypsy?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Simms," said Gypsy, confiden- 
 tially, " I've done the most dreadful thing ! " 
 
 " Dear me ! I don't see how that is possi- 
 ble," said Mr. Simms, taking his spectacles 
 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 it happen?" 
 
 r I jumped on it."
 
 UP IN THE APPLE-TREE. 131 
 
 "Jumped on it!" 
 
 " Yes ; I'm sure I don't know what father'll 
 say." 
 
 ""^Tell, I must say you arc a wonderful 
 young person," said Mr. Sinims, proudly. 
 "I'm sure I'm glad that's all. "Don't yon 
 fret, my dear. Your father won't care much 
 about water-nymphs, when he has such a 
 daughter." 
 
 "But he will," said Gypsy, who regarded 
 Mr. Simms's compliments only as a tiresome 
 interruption to conversation, and by no means 
 as entitled to any attention ; " 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 ! " 
 fcaid Mr. Simms, as he bowed himself away 
 in his polite, old-fashioned way, and disap- 
 peared up the stairway that led to the print- 
 ing-rooms. It seemed to Gypsy, waiting
 
 132 GYI 3Y BREYNTON. 
 
 there so impatiently, as if her father would 
 never come down. But come he did at last, 
 looking very much surprised to see her, and 
 anxious to know if the house 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 much going on Sat- 
 urday afternoons. Simms, you can lock up 
 when you go home to supper. I hope you 
 haven't been giving your mother any trouble, 
 or thrown your ball into Mrs. Surly's win- 
 dows again," he added, nervously, as they 
 passed 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 
 notliing.
 
 UP IN THE APPI^E-TREE. 133 
 
 w I kuow you think I'm always up to mis- 
 chief, and I don't suppose I'll ever learn to 
 be a lady and know how not to break things, 
 and I'm so sorry, but I didn't suppose there 
 was any harm in jumping off an apple-tree, 
 and the water-nymph went over and perhaps 
 if you sent me to school or something I'd 
 learu 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. Breyu- 
 ton. 
 
 "Yes," said Gypsy, dolefully; "right 
 over, head-first into the pond broken to 
 smash I " 
 
 "Oh, Gypsy ! that is too bad." 
 
 " I know it," interrupted Gypsy ; " I know 
 it was terribly careless terribly. Did you 
 ever know anything so exactly like me ? The 
 worst of it is, being sorry doesn't help 
 the nutter. I wish I could buy you another,
 
 134 GYPSY BREYNTOH. 
 
 Won't you please to take my five dollars, 
 and I'll earn some more picking berries." 
 
 "I don't want your money, my child," 
 said Mr. Breyntou, looking troubled and 
 puzzled. w I'm sorry the nymph is gone ; 
 but somehow you do seem to be different 
 from other girls. I didn't know young ladies 
 ever jumped." 
 
 Gypsy was silent. Her father and mothei 
 seemed to think differently about these 
 things. To her view, and, she felt sure, to 
 her mother's, the fault lay in the carelessness of 
 not finding out whether the image was iu her 
 way. She could not see that she was doing 
 anything wrong in going out alone into an 
 apple-tree, and springing from a low bough, 
 upon the soft grass. Very likely, when she 
 was a givwn-up young lady, with long dresses 
 and hair done up behind, she shouldn't care 
 anything about climbing trees. But that was 
 another question. However, she had too
 
 UP IN THE APPLE-TREE. 135 
 
 touch respect for her father to say this. So 
 she hung her head, feeling very humble and 
 Bony, and wondering if Mr. Simms couldn't 
 plaster the nymph together somehow, he was 
 always so ready to do things for her. 
 
 w Well," said her father, after a moment's 
 thought, in which he had been struggling 
 with a sense of disappointment at the de- 
 struction of his statue, that would have made 
 a less kind-hearted man scold. 
 
 "Well, it can't be helped, and as to the 
 climbing trees, I suppose your mother knows 
 best. I am glad you came and told me, any- 
 way very glad. You arc 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 a habit of lov- 
 ing Gypsy. What do you think ?
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 JUST LIKE GYPSY. 
 
 [0\NE afternoon Gypsy was coming noun 
 // from the post-office. It was a rare 
 June day. The great soft shadows fell 
 and faded on the mountains, and the air 
 was sweet with the breath of a hundred fields 
 where crimson clovers nodded in the sleepy 
 wind. It seemed to Gypsy that she had 
 never seen such mellow sunlight, or skies so 
 pure and blue ; that no birds ever sung such 
 songs in the elm-trees, and never were but- 
 terflies so golden and brown and beautiful 
 as those which fluttered drowsily over the 
 tiny roadside clovers. The thought came to 
 her like a little sudden heart-throb, that 
 thrilled- her through and through, that thia 
 world was a very great world, and very beau- 
 
 136
 
 JUST fJKK GYPSY. 137 
 
 tiful, it seemed so all ye and happy, from 
 the arch of the blazing sky down to the blos- 
 soms of the purple weeds that hid in the 
 grass. She wondered that she had never 
 thought of it before. How many millions of 
 people were enjoying this wonderful day I 
 What a great thing it was to live in such a 
 world, where everything was so beautiful and 
 useful and happy ! The very fact that she 
 was alive in it made her so glad. She felt as 
 if she would like to go off on the rocks some- 
 where, and shout and jump and sing. 
 
 As she walked slowly along past the store? 
 and the crowded tenement-houses, swinging 
 her little letter-basket on her arm, and dream- 
 ing away with her great brown eyes, as such 
 young eyes will always dream upon a sum- 
 mer's day, there suddenly struck upon that 
 happy thought of hers a mournful sound. 
 
 It was a human groan. 
 
 It grated on Gypsy's musing, as a file
 
 138 GYTSY BREYNTON. 
 
 grates upon smooth marble ; she started, and 
 looked up. The sound came from an open 
 window directly over her head. What could 
 anybody be groaning about, such a day as 
 this? Gypsy felt a momentary impatience 
 with the mournful sound; then a sudden 
 curiosity to know what it meant. A door 
 happened to be open near her, and she 
 walked right in, without a second thought, 
 as was the fashion in which Gypsy usually 
 did things. A pair of steep stairs led up 
 from the bit of an entry, and a quantity of 
 children, whose faces and hands were decid- 
 edly the worse for wear, were playing on 
 them. 
 
 "How do you do?" said Gypsy. The 
 children stared. 
 
 "Who lives here?" asked Gypsy, again - 
 Tlio children put their fingers in their 
 mouths. 
 
 WTio is that groaning so?" persisted
 
 JUST T.ThE GYPSY. 139 
 
 repressing a strong desire to bos 
 their ears. The children crawled a little 
 further up-stairs, and peered at her from be- 
 tween their locks* of shaggy hair, as if they 
 considered 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 head out into the entry, and 
 asked, in rather a surly tone, what was wanted. 
 
 K Who is that groaning ? " repeated Gypsy. 
 
 w Oh, that's nothiu' but Grandmother Lit- 
 Mejohn," said the woman, with a laugh 
 * she's always groanin'." 
 
 "But what does she groan for?" insisted 
 G}~psy, her curiosity nowise diminished to 
 see a person who could be "always groaniu'," 
 through not only one, but many, of such 
 golden summer days. 
 
 " Oh, I s'pose she's got reason enough, for 
 the matter of that," said the woman, care- 
 lessly ; " she's broke a bone, though she do
 
 140 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 make a terrible fuss over it, and \ery ou- 
 obligin' it is to the neighbors as has the 
 lookin' after of her." 
 
 "Broken a bone! Poor tiring, 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 very much. 
 Tt only strengthened her resolution, however, 
 and she ran up the narrow stairs scattering 
 the children right and left. 
 
 Several other untidy-looking women opened 
 doors and peered out at her as she went by ; 
 but no one else spoke to her. Guided by 
 the sound of the groans, which same at regu- 
 lar intervals like long breaths, she went up a 
 second flight of stairs, more narrow and more 
 dark thin the first, and turned into a little 
 low room, the door of which stood open. 
 
 "Who's there?" called a fretful voice from 
 inside.
 
 JUST LIKE GYPSY. 141 
 
 W I," said Gypsy ; "may I come in? " 
 
 "I don't know who you be," said the "\oice, 
 " but you may come 'long ef you want to." 
 
 Gypsy accepted the somewhat dubious in- 
 vitation. The room was in sad disorder, and 
 very dusty. An old yellow cat sat blinking 
 at a sunbeam, and an old, yellow, wizened 
 woman lay upon the bed. Her forehead was 
 oil drawn and knotted with pain, and her 
 mouth looked just like her voice fretful 
 and sharp. She turned her head slowly, as 
 Gypsy entered, but otherwise she did not 
 alter her position ; as if it were one which 
 she could not change without pain. 
 
 "Good afternoon," said Gypsy, feeling a 
 little embarrassed, and not knowing exactly 
 what to say, now she was up there. 
 
 " Good arternooii," said Grandmother Lit- 
 tlejohn, with a groan. 
 
 "I heard you groan out in the street," said 
 Gypsy, rushing to the point at once ; " I came 
 up to see what was the matter."
 
 142 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 "Matter?" said the old woman, sharply, 
 " I fell down stairs and broke my ankle, that's 
 the matter, an' I wonder the whole town hain't 
 heerd me holler, I can't sleep day nor night 
 with the pain, an' it's matter enough, I 
 think." 
 
 " I'm real sorry," said Gypsy. 
 
 Mrs. Littlejohn broke into a fresh spasm 
 of groaning at this, and seemed to be in such 
 Buffering, 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 young foliar who 
 said he was representative from somewhere, 
 from Medical Profession, seems to me it war, 
 but I never heerd on't, wharever it is, an' he 
 with his whiskers only half growed, an' put- 
 tin' of my foot into a wooden box, an' mur- 
 derin* of me I gave him a piece of my
 
 JUST LIKE GYTSY. 143 
 
 miiid, and he hain't come nigh me since, and 
 I won't have him agin noways." 
 
 " But they always splinter broken limbs," 
 said Gypsy. 
 
 w Splinters ? " cried the old woman ; " I toll 
 ye I fell down stairs ! I didn't get no splin- 
 ters in." 
 
 Gypsy concluded to suppress her surgical 
 information. 
 
 " Who takes care of you ? " she asked, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " Nobody ! / don't want nobody takin' care 
 of me when I ain't shut up in a box on the 
 bed, an' now I am, the neighbors is shy 
 enough of troublin' themselves about me, an' 
 talks of the work-house. I'll starve fust ! " 
 
 "Who gives you your dinners and sup- 
 pers?" asked Gypsy, beginning to think 
 Grandmother Littlejohn was a very ill-treated 
 woman. 
 
 "It's little enough I gets," said the old
 
 144 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 Woman, groaning afresh ; " they brings jae 
 up a cup of cold tea when they feels liko it^ 
 md crusts of bread, and I with no teeth tc 
 eat 'em. I hain't had a mouthful of dinner 
 this, day, and that's the truth, now ! " 
 
 w No dinner ! " cried Gypsy. " Why, how 
 norry I am for you ! I'll go right home and 
 get you some, and tell my mother. She'll 
 take care of you she always does take care 
 of everybody." 
 
 "You're a pretty little gal," said Mrs. Lit- 
 tlejohn, with a sigh ; " an' I hope you'll be 
 rewarded for botherin' yourself about a poor 
 old woman like me. Docs your ma use white 
 sugar? I like white sugar in my tea." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Gypsy, rather pleased than 
 otherwise to be called a "pretty little gal." 
 "Oh yes; we have a whole barrel full. 
 You can have some just as well .is not ; I'll 
 bring you down a pound or so, and I have 
 five dollars at home that you might have-
 
 JUST LIKE GYTSY. 145 
 
 \T~hat would you like to have mo get for 
 you?" 
 
 " Dear me I " said Mrs. Littlejohn ; " what 
 a angel of mercy to the poor and afflicted you 
 be ! I should like some fresh salmon and 
 green peas, now, if I could get 'em." 
 
 "Very well," said Gypsy; "I'll hurry 
 home and see about it." 
 
 Accordingly she left the old woman groan 
 ing out her thanks, and went down the narrow 
 stairs, and into the street. 
 
 She ran all the way home, and rushed into 
 the parlor where her mother was sitting 
 quietly sewing. She looked up as the door 
 burst open, and Gypsy swept in like a little 
 tmrricane, her turban hanging down her neck, 
 her hair loose and flying about an eager face 
 that was all on fire with its warm crimson 
 color and twinkling eyes. 
 
 "Why, Gypsy!" 
 
 K Oh, mother, such an old woman such a
 
 146 GrPSY BBEYNTON. 
 
 poor old woman ! groaning right out in the 
 street I mean, I was out in the street, and 
 heard her groan up two flights of the crook- 
 edcst stairs, and she broke her ankle, and the 
 neighbors won't give her anything to cat, 
 unless she goes to the poor-house and starves, 
 and she hasn't had any dinner, and " 
 
 "Wait a minute, Gypsy ; what does all th's 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Why, she fell down those horrid stairs 
 and broke her ankle, and wants some salmon 
 and green peas, and I'm going to give her 
 
 my live dollars, and Oh, white sugar, 
 
 some white sugar for her tea. I never heard 
 anybody groan so, in all my life ! " 
 
 Mrs. Breynton laid dovm her work, and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Why, mother ! " said Gypsy, reddening. 
 "I don't see what there is to laugh at ! " 
 
 " My dear Gypsy, you would laugh if you 
 had heard your own story. The most T can
 
 JUST T.TRT. GYPSY. 147 
 
 mike out of it is, that a little girl who is so 
 excited she hardly knows what she is talking 
 bout, has seen an old woman who has been 
 **&'' L f r fresh salmon." 
 
 And broken her ankle, and is starring/ 
 I-gan Gypsy. 
 
 * Stop a minute," interrupted Mrs. Brcyn- 
 "83 lown and take off your 
 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." 
 very reluctantly, obeyed. It 
 seemed to her incredible that any one could 
 be so quiet and composed as her mother was, 
 when there was an old woman in town who 
 had had no dinner. However, she sat still 
 and fanned herself, and when she was rested, 
 die managed to tell her story in as connected 
 and rational manner, and with as few com- 
 ments and exclamations of her own, as Gypsy 
 -as capible of getting along with, in anj 
 uarratioa.
 
 148 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Very well," said her mother, when it waa 
 finished ; " I begin to understand things bet- 
 1x31. Let me see: in the first place, you 
 felt so sorry for the old woman, that you went 
 alone into a strange house, among a sort of 
 people you knew nothing about, and without 
 stopping to think whether I should be willing 
 to have you wasn't that so ?" 
 
 " Yes'ni," said Gypsy, hanging her head a 
 little ; " I didn't think she did groan so." 
 
 " Then Mrs. Littlejohn seems to like to 
 complain, it strikes me." 
 
 w Complain ! " said Gypsy, indignantly. 
 
 w Yes, a little. However, she might have 
 worse faults. The most remarkable thing 
 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 I 
 sprained my wrist, you gave me nice things 
 to eat."
 
 JUST T.TTvT! GYPSY. 14i) 
 
 " But it wouldn't follow that I should give 
 Mrs. Littlejohn the same," said Mrs. Breyn- 
 ton, gently. " Salmon and white sugar are 
 expensive luxuries. I might be able to do 
 something to help Mrs. Littlejohn, but I 
 might not be able to afford to take her down 
 the two or three pounds of sugar you prom- 
 ised her, nor to spend several dollars on fresh 
 salmon a delicacy which we have had on 
 our own table but once this season. Besides, 
 there are thirty or forty sick people in town, 
 probably, who are as poor and as much in 
 need of assistance as this one old woman. 
 You see, don't you, that I could not give sal- 
 mon and peas and white sugar to them all, 
 and it would be unwise in me to spend all my 
 money on one, when I might divide it, and 
 help several people." 
 
 * But there's my five dollars," said Cryps^ , 
 only half convinced. 
 
 " Very well, supposing I were to let you
 
 150 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 givo it all &way to Mrs. Littlejohn v even il 
 sbc wero the most worthy and needy person 
 that could be found in town, what then? It 
 is all gone. You have nothing more to give. 
 The next week a poor little girl who has no 
 hat, and can't go to Sunday school, excites 
 your sympathy, and you would be glad to give 
 something toward buying her a hat you have 
 not a copper. You go to Monthly Concert, 
 and want to drop something into the contri- 
 bution box, but Mrs. Littlejohn has eaten up 
 what you might have given. You want to do 
 something for the poor frecdmen, who arc 
 coming into our armies ; you cannot do it, for 
 you have nothing to give." 
 
 "Well," said Gypsy, with a ludicrous ex- 
 pression of conviction and discomfiture, "I 
 suppose so ; I didn't think." 
 
 " Didn't think! the old enemy, Gypsy. 
 And now that I have pointed out the little 
 mistakes you made this afternoon, I want to
 
 JUST LIKE GYl'SY. 151 
 
 tell you, Gypsy, how pleased I am thai you 
 were so quick to feel sorry for the old woman, 
 and so ready to be generous wi*h your own 
 money and help. I would rather have you 
 fail a dozen times on the unselfish side, than 
 to have you careless and heartless towards the 
 people God has made poor, and in suffering 
 
 there ! I have given you a long sermon. 
 
 Do you think mother is always scolding ? " 
 
 Mrs. Breynton drew her into her arms, and 
 gave her one of thoso little soft kisses on the 
 forehead, that Gypsy liked so much. "I will 
 go down and see the old woman after sup- 
 per," she said, then. 
 
 ''Couldn't you go before?" suggested 
 Gypsy. " She said she hadn't had any din- 
 ner." 
 
 "We can't do things in too much of a 
 hurry; not even our charities," said Mrs. 
 fireynton, smiling. " I have some work which 
 I cannot leave nr w, and I have little doubt
 
 152 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 the woman bud some dinner. The poor are 
 almost always very kind neighbors to each 
 other. I will be there early enough to take 
 her some supper." 
 
 So Gypsy was comforted for Mrs. Little- 
 iohn. 
 
 It was nearly dark when Mrs. Brcyntoii 
 came up from the village, with her pleasant 
 smile, and her little basket that half York- 
 bury knew so well by sight, for the biscuit 
 and the jellies, the blanc-mange, and the 
 dried beef and the cookies, that it brought 
 to so many sick-beds. Gypsy had been 
 watching 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's expression. 
 
 " She is a good deal of a scold, and some- 
 tiling of a sufferer," said Mrs. Breyuton,
 
 JUST LIKE GYPSV. 153 
 
 Gypsy's face fell, and they walked up to tho 
 bouse in silence. 
 
 " Then you're not going to do anything for 
 her?" asked Gypsy, at length, in a disap- 
 pointed 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 prop- 
 erly taken care of. I gave her her supper, 
 and have arranged with one or two of the 
 ladies to send her meals for a few days, till 
 we see how she is, and what had better be 
 done. I take care of her to-morrow, and 
 Mrs. Howe takes her the next day." 
 
 "Good!" said Gypsy, brightening; w 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
 
 154 GYPSY BREYATON. 
 
 breakfast; and was disappointed criiough v 
 vvhcn her mother thought it best she should 
 wait till she had eaten her own. However, 
 on the strength of the remembrance of her 
 mother's tried and proved Avisdom, on certain 
 other little occasions, she submitted with a 
 good grace. 
 
 She carried Mrs. Littlejohu a very good 
 breakfast of griddle-cakes and fish-balls and 
 sweet white bread, and was somewhat taken 
 aback to find that 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 long and 
 wearisome, and Mrs. Littlejohn neglected to 
 call her an angel of mercy, and it must be 
 confessed Gypsy's enthusiasm diminished per- 
 ceptibly. 
 
 That evening Mr. and Mrs. Breynton were 
 out to tea, and Tom was off fishing. Mrs, 
 Breynton left Mrs. Littlejohn*s supper in a
 
 JUST LIKE GYPSY. 155 
 
 basket on the shelf, and told Gypsy -where it 
 was. Gypsy had been having a great frolic 
 in the fresh hay with Sarah Rowc, and camo 
 in late. Xo one but Winnie was there. She 
 eat her supper in a great hurry, and went out 
 again. Patty saw her from the window, and 
 concluded she had gone to Mrs. Littlejohn's. 
 
 That night, about cloven o'clock, some one 
 knocked at Mrs. Breynton's door, and woke 
 her up. 
 
 "Who is it?" she called. 
 
 "Oh, mother Brcynton!" said a doleful 
 voice ; " what do you suppose I've done 
 now ? " 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," said Mrs. Breyn- 
 ton, with a resigned sigh. 
 
 " I hope she hasn't been walking in her 
 sleep again," said Mr. Brcynton, nervously. 
 
 "Forgotten Mrs. Littlejohu's supper," said 
 the doleful voice, through the key-hole. 
 
 "Why, Gypsy ! "
 
 156 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "I know it," said Gypsy, humbly. " Could- 
 u't I dress and run down ? " 
 
 " Why, no indeed I it can't be helped now. 
 Run back to bed." 
 
 " Just like Gypsy, for all the world ! " said 
 Tom, the next morning. K Always so quick 
 and generous, and sorry for people, and ready 
 to do, and you can depend on her just about 
 as much as you could on a brisk west wind I"
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PEACE MAYTIIOBNE. 
 
 FTER you have seen Mrs. Little- 
 John, and explained why she went 
 suppcrless last night," said Mrs. 
 Brcynton, "I want you to do an 
 errand for me." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Gypsy, pleasantly. 
 She felt very humble, and much ashamed, 
 this morning, and anxious to make herself 
 useful. 
 
 " I want you to find out where Peace May- 
 thorne's room is, it is in the same house, 
 and carry her this, with my love." 
 
 Mrs. Breynton took up a copy of " Harper's 
 Magazine," and handed it to Gypsv. 
 
 w Tell her I have turned the leaf down at 
 some articles I think will interest her, and 
 
 167
 
 158 GYTSY BKEYSTOX. 
 
 ask her if the powder I left her put her to 
 sleep." 
 
 " Who is Peace Maythorne ?" asked Gypsy, 
 woudering. w Is she poor ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How funny to send her a 'Harper's,' 75 
 said Gypsy. " Why don't you give her somo 
 money, or something?" 
 
 " Some things are worth more than money 
 to some people," said Mrs. Brcynton, smiling. 
 
 " Why ! then you had hceu into that house 
 before I found Mrs. Littlcjohn?" snid Gypsy, 
 as the thought first struck her. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; many times." 
 
 Gypsy started off, with the Magazine under 
 ner arm, wondering if there were a house in 
 town, filled with these wretched poor, in which 
 her mother was not known as a friend. 
 
 Her heart sank a little as she climbed tho 
 dark stairs to Mrs. Littlejohu's room. She 
 had begged of her mother a tiny pailful of
 
 PEACE MAYi'lIORNE. 15U 
 
 green peas, with which she hoped to pacify 
 the old woman, but she was somewhat iu 
 dread of hearing her talk, and ashamed to 
 confess her own neglect. 
 
 Mrs. Littlejohn was eating the very nice 
 breakfast which Mrs. Howe had sent 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 your supper last 
 night, and I'm just as sorry as I can be," said 
 Gypsy, coming to the point frankly, and 
 without any attempt to excuse herself. 
 
 "Oh, of course!" said Mrs. Littlejohu, in 
 the tone of a martyr. "It's all I expect. 
 I'm a poor lone widdy with a bone broke, 
 and I'm used to beiii' forgot. Little gala 
 that has everything they want, and five dol
 
 1GO GYTSY BREYNTON. 
 
 lars besides, and promises rue salmon and 
 euch, couldn't be expected to remember the 
 Euffcrin' and afflicted, of Bourse not." 
 
 It was not aa easy nor a pleasant thing to 
 apologize to a person to whom she had played 
 the charitable lady the day before ; and Mrs. 
 Littlejohn's manner of receiving the explana- 
 tion certainly made it no easier. But Gypsy, 
 as the saying goes, "swallowed her pride," 
 and felt that she deserved 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 Li 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. Little-
 
 PEACE MAYTHOIINE. l&l 
 
 luhn, with a long groan. "There's some 
 water in that air pail " 
 
 Gy^sy went into the comer where the pai] 
 stood, and filled the mug with water ; then, 
 not being able to think of anything more to 
 Bay, she concluded to go. 
 
 " Good moriiiu'," said Mrs. Littlejohn, in a 
 forgiving tone ; " I hope you'll come agin." 
 
 Gypsy secretly thought it was doubtful if 
 she ever did. Her charity, like that of most 
 young people of her age and experience, was 
 not of the sort calculated to survive under 
 difficulties, or to deal successfully with shrew- 
 ish old women. 
 
 After inquiring in vain of the group of 
 staring children where Peace Maythorne's 
 room was, Gypsy resorted to her friend, the 
 red-faced woman, who directed her to a door, 
 ipon the second story. 
 
 It was closed, and Gypsy knocked. 
 
 "Come in," said a quiet voice. Gypsj
 
 162 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 went 111, wondering why Peace Ma^thome 
 did not get up and open the door, and if 
 she did not know it was more polite. SLe 
 stopped short, as she entered the room, and 
 wondered no longer. 
 
 It was a plain, bare room, but neat enough, 
 and not unpleasant nor unhomelike, because 
 of the great flood of morning sunlight that 
 fell in and touched everything to golden 
 warmth. It touched most brightly, and lin- 
 gered longest, on a low bed drawn up be- 
 tween the windows. A girl lay there, with 
 a pale face turned over on the pillows, and 
 weak, thin hands, folded on the counterpane. 
 She might, from her size, have been about 
 sixteen years of age ; but her face was like 
 the face of a woman long grown old. The 
 clothing of the bed partially concealed her 
 shoulders, which were cruelly rounded and 
 bent. 
 
 So Peace Maythorne was a cripple.
 
 \ 
 
 PEACE MAYTIIORNE. 163 
 
 Gypsy recovered from her astonishment 
 with a little start, and said, blushing, for feai 
 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 May- 
 faorne, smiling. "Won't you sit down?" 
 
 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 for me. 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 eyea 
 wide ; " I thought everybody liked to 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 about her sewing. 
 I can't do much."
 
 I 64 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Oh, you live with your aunt?" said 
 Gypsy. 
 
 "Yes. She takes in sewing. She's out, 
 just now." 
 
 "Does your back pain you a gieat deal?" 
 asked Gypsy. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; all the time. But, then, I get 
 used to it, you know," said Peace. 
 
 "All the time! oh, I am so sorry ! " said 
 Gypsy, drawing a long breath. 
 
 "Oh, it might be worse," said Peace, smil- 
 ing. " I've only lain here three years. Some 
 people can't move for forty. The doctor says 
 I sha'u't live so long as that." 
 
 Gypsy looked at the low bed, the narrow 
 room, the pallid face and shrunken bod}' 
 cramped there, moveless, on the pillows. 
 Three years ! Three years to lie through 
 summer suns and winter snows, while all tho 
 world was out at play, and happy ! 
 
 "Well," said Gypsy, a? the most appro-
 
 PEACE MAlfTHORXE. 1G5 
 
 prlate 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 those powders 
 she left you put you to sleep." 
 
 "Nicely. They're better than anything 
 the doctor gave me ; everything your mother 
 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 
 He awake very often.?" 
 
 Peace answered in the two quiet words thai
 
 166 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 were on her lips so often, in the quiet voice 
 that never complained, 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 There was a little silence. Gypsy was 
 watching Peace Peace had her eyes turned 
 away from her visitor, but she was conscious 
 of every quick, nervous breath Gypsy drew, 
 and every impatient little nutter of her hands. 
 
 The two girls were studying each other. 
 Gypsy's investigations, whatever they were, 
 seemed to be very pleasant, for she started 
 at last with a bit of 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, and the eyes 
 were full of tears. After a moment, 
 
 * Thank you. I don't see many people so 
 yoang except the children. I tell them 
 stories, sometimes."
 
 PEACE MAYTHORXE. 167 
 
 *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 know you 
 won't. I'm a silly, well, I'll tell you what 
 I am by-and-by. First, I want to hear all 
 about you, everything, I mean," she added, 
 with a quick delicacy, of which, for "blunder- 
 ing Gypsy," she had a great deal, "every- 
 thing that you care to tell me." 
 
 "Why, I've nothing to toll," said Peace, 
 smiling, " cooped up here all the time ; it's 
 all the same." 
 
 "That's just what I want to hear about. 
 About the being cooped up. I don't see how 
 you bear it!" said Gypsy, impetuously. 
 
 Peace smiled again. Gypsy had a fancy 
 that the smile had stolen one of the sunbeams 
 that lay in euch golden, flickering waves, 
 upon the bed. 
 
 Too much self-depreciatiou is often a sign
 
 Ill 8 GYPSY BEEYNTON. 
 
 of the extremes! vanity. Peace bad nothing 
 of this. Seeing that Gypsy was in earnest 
 in her wish to hear her story, she quietly 
 began it without further parley. It was very 
 simple, and quickly told. 
 
 " We used to live on a farm on the moun- 
 tains father and mother and I. There were 
 a great many cattle, and so much ground it 
 tired me to walk across it. I always went to 
 school, and father read to us in the evenings. 
 I suppose that's the way I've learned to love 
 to read, and I've been so glad since. I was 
 pretty small when they died, first father, 
 then mother. I remember it a little ; at least 
 I remember about mother, she kissed ine 
 so, and cried. Then Aunt Jane came for me. 
 and brought me here. "We lived in n pleasant 
 house up the street, at first. I used to work 
 in the mill, and earned enough to pay aunt 
 what I cost her. Then one day, when I was 
 thirteen years old, we were coming out at
 
 PEACE MAYT1IORNE. 1G9 
 
 nooii, nil of us girls in a great hurry and 
 frolic, and I felt sick and dizzy watching the 
 wheels go round, and, well, they didn't 
 mean to, but they pushed me, and I fell." 
 
 " Down stairs ? " 
 
 "All the way, it was a long, crooked 
 flight. I struck my spine on every step." 
 
 " Oh, Peace ! " said Gypsy, half under her 
 breath. 
 
 " I was sick for a little while ; then I got 
 better. I thought it was all over. Then one 
 day I found a little curve between my shoul- 
 ders, and so, well, it came so slowly J 
 hardly knew it, till at last I was in bed with 
 the pain. We had come here because it was 
 hard times, and aunt had to support me, 
 and then there were the doctor's bills." 
 
 " Doesn't he say you can ever get V7cll ? 
 never sit up a little while?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 Gypsy gasped a little, as if she were jiuTo- 
 cating.
 
 170 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 " And your aunt, is she kind to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 A certain flitting expression, that the face 
 of Peace caught with the words, Gypsy could 
 aot help seeing. 
 
 "But I mean, real kind. Does she love 
 you ? " 
 
 The girl's check flushed to a pale, quick 
 crinisoii, then faded slowly. 
 
 " She is very good to me. I am a great 
 trouble. You know I am not her own. It 
 is very hard for her that I can't support 
 myself." 
 
 Gypsy said something just then, in her 
 innermost thought of thoughts, about Aunt 
 Jane, that Aunt Jane would not have cared 
 to hear. 
 
 * If I could only earn something ! " said 
 Peace, with a quick breath, that sounded like 
 a sigh. " That is hardest of all. But it's all 
 right somehow."
 
 PEACE MAYTIIOKXE. 171 
 
 " Peace Maythorue ! " said Gypsy, in a lit- 
 tle flash, " I don't see ! never to go out in tLe 
 wind and jump on the hay, and climb the 
 mountains, and run and row and snowball, 
 why, it would kill me ! And you lie hero 
 so sweet and patient, and you haven't said a 
 cross word all the while you've been telling 
 me about it. I don't understand ! How can 
 you, can you bear it?" 
 
 "I couldn't, if I didn't tell Him," said 
 Peace, softly. 
 
 "Whom?" 
 
 "God." 
 
 There was a long silence. Gypsy looked 
 out of the window, winking very hard, and 
 Peace lay quite still upon the bed. 
 
 " There ! " said Gypsy, at last, with a 
 jump, "I shall be late to school." 
 
 "Oh," said Peace, "you haven't told me 
 anything about yourself; you said you 
 would."
 
 172 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Well,' said Gypsy, tying on her h&t, 
 " that's easy enough done. I'm silly and 
 cross, and forgetful and blundering." 
 
 *I don't believe it," said Peace, laughing. 
 
 "I am," said Gypsy, confidentially; "it's 
 all true ; and I'm always tearing my dresses, 
 and worrying father, and getting mad at 
 Winnie, and bothering Miss Melville, and 
 romping round, and breaking my neck ; and 
 then, when things don't go right, how I 
 scold ! " 
 
 Peace smiled, and looked incredulous. 
 
 "It's just so," said Gypsy, giving a little 
 sharp nod to emphasize her words. "And 
 here you lie, and never think of being cross 
 and impatient, and love everybody and every- 
 body loves you, and well, all I have to 
 say is, if I were yo i I should have scolded 
 everybody out of the house long before 
 this!" 
 
 "You mustn't talk so about ine," said
 
 PEACE MAYTIIORNE. 173 - 
 
 Peace, a faint shadow of pain crossing hef 
 face. " Ton don't know how wicked I am 
 nobody knows ; I am cross very often. 
 Sometimes when my back aches as if 1 
 should scream, and aunt is talking, I hide 
 my face under the clothes, and don't say a 
 word to her." 
 
 " You call that being cross ! " said Gypsy, 
 with her eyes very wide open. She buttoned 
 on her sack, and started to go, but stopped a 
 minute. 
 
 " I don't suppose you'd want me to come 
 again I'm so noisy, and all." 
 
 "Oh, I should be so glad!" said Peace, 
 with one of those rare smiles ; " I didn't daro 
 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 funn/ ! " said Gypsy. Then she 
 bade her good-by, and went to school.
 
 174 GY1SY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Mother," she said, at night, "did jr-. t 
 have any particular reason in sending ine to 
 Peace Maythorne ? " 
 
 "Perhaps so," said Mrs. Breynton, smil- 
 mg. "Why?" 
 
 "Nothing, only I thought so. You were a 
 rery wise woman." 
 
 A while after she spoke up, suddenly. 
 
 "Mother, don't the Quakers say good 
 matches are made in heaven?" 
 
 " Who's been putting sentimental ideas 
 into the child's head?" said her father, in 
 lin undertone. 
 
 "Why, Gypsy Breynton!" said Winnie, 
 looking very much shocked ; " you hadn't 
 ought to say such things. Of course, tho 
 brimstone falls down from hell, and they 
 pick it up and put it on the matches ! " 
 
 " What made you ask the question ? ' said 
 Airs. Breynton, when the laugh had sub 
 ide4.
 
 PEACE MAYT1IOKXE. 175 
 
 "Oh, I was only thinking, I guessed Peace 
 MayVhorne's name was made in heaven. It 
 BO exactly suits her." 
 
 After that, the crippVo little quiet room 
 became one of the places Gypsy loved boit in 
 Yorkbury. 
 
 Two or three weeks after that Mrs. Lit 
 tlejohn, who had been gaining rapidly in 
 strength and good temper under Mrs. Breyn- 
 ton's wise and kindly care, took it into her 
 head one morning, when she was alone, to 
 walk across the room, and look out of the 
 window. The weakened limb was not in a 
 fit state to be used at all, and the shock 
 given to it was very great. Inflammation set 
 in, and fever, and the doctor shook his head, 
 and asked if the old woman had any friend* 
 living anywhere ; if so, they had better be sent 
 for. But the poor creature seemed to lw 
 desolate enough ; declared she had no rela- 
 tives, and ws.s glad of it ; she only wante/3 to
 
 1T6 GYPSY BEEYSTION. 
 
 bo let alone, and she should get well fast 
 enough. 
 
 She never said that when Mrs. Breynton 
 was in the room. Gypsy went down one 
 evening with her mother, to help her carry 
 a bundle of fresh bed-clothing, and die was 
 astonished at the gentleness which had crept 
 into the old withered face and peevish voice. 
 Mrs. Littlejohn called her up to the bed, just 
 bs she started to go. 
 
 " I say, little gal, I told ye a fib the day ye 
 fust come. I did have a dinner, though it 
 war a terrible measly one Mrs. Breynton, 
 marm ! " 
 
 Mrs. Breynton stepped up to her. 
 
 n What was that ye read t'other day 'bout 
 liars not go in' into the kingdom of heaven? 
 I 'most forgot." 
 
 Gypsy crept out, softly. She was won- 
 dering how her mother had managed her 
 charity to this fretful old woman so wisely,
 
 PEACE MAYTHOI2NE. 177 
 
 that her words, unfitly spoken, were becoming 
 a trouble to herself, and her hours (if increas- 
 ing pain turned into hours of late, faint re- 
 pentance. Perhaps the charm lay in a certain 
 old book, dog-eared and worn, and dusty from 
 long disuse on the cupboard shelf. This little 
 book Mrs. Breynton had found, and she had 
 read in it many tunes, until that painful 
 groaning ceased. 
 
 And so one night it chanced that the old 
 yellow cat sat blinking at the light, and the 
 yellow, furrowed face turned over on the pil- 
 low and smiled, and lay still. The light 
 burned out, and the morning came ; the cat 
 jumped purring upon the bed, and seeing 
 what was there, curled up by it, with a 
 mournful mewing cry. 
 
 w Peace Maythonie says, "said Gypsy, "that 
 if Mrs. L'.ttlejohn went to heaven, she will 
 be so happy to find she doesn't scold! Isn't it 
 funny, in Peace, to think of such things?"
 
 CHAPTER UL. 
 
 CAMPING OUT. 
 
 you remember Mr. Gough's famoun 
 story of the orator who, with a great 
 flourish of rhetoric as prelude, an- 
 nounced to his audience the startling 
 fact that there was a "gre at difference in 
 people?" On the strength of this original 
 statement, it has been supposed that there 
 were a variety of tastes to be suited in select- 
 ing for the readers of "Gypsy Breynton" 
 the most entertaining passages of this one 
 summer in her life. The last two chapters 
 were for the quiet young people. This ono 
 is for the lively young people the people 
 who like to live out of doors, and have adven- 
 tures, and get into difficulties, and get ovel 
 
 178
 
 CAMPING OUT. 179 
 
 them. The quiet people aforesaid need not 
 read it, if they don't want to. 
 
 Did you ever " camp out " ? 
 
 If you ever did, or ever very much wauted 
 to, you will know how Gypsy felt one morn- 
 ing after her summer vacation had begun, and 
 she was wondering what she should do with 
 herself all day, when Tom came into her room 
 and said, 
 
 " Gypsy > don't you wish you were a boy? 
 I'm going to spend a week at Kipton, with 
 Hallam." 
 
 w Mr. Hallam ! " exclaimed Gypsy. Mr. 
 Guy Hallam was a lawyer about thirty years 
 old ; but Tom had the natural boy's feeling 
 about "metering" any one, that he had gone 
 uii fishing excursions with, ever since he could 
 remember; while Gypsy was more respect- 
 ful. 
 
 *BiptoDl" said Gypsy, again; "Ob, deal 
 mei r
 
 180 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "And going to camp out and have a fire, 
 and cook our trout, and shoot our rabbits," 
 said Tom, with an aggravating appearance of 
 indifference, as if these were only a specimen 
 of innumerable delights unmentioned. 
 
 "Oh, dear mef" said Gypsy, with a long 
 sigh. 
 
 . " There are several disadvantages in being 
 a girl, my dear, as you will find out, occa- 
 faionally," 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!" 
 
 w Girls do camp out ; I've heard about it ; 
 parties of ladies and gentlemen go out up ou 
 the Adirondacks. You might take Sarah 
 Rowe and me." 
 
 Tom smiled a very superior smile. 
 
 " Come, Tom, do there's a good fellow 1 *
 
 CAMPING OUT. 181 
 
 ** Take along a couple of girls that can't 
 fell, and scream when you shoot a squirrel, 
 and are always having headaches, and sprain- 
 ing their ankles, and afraid to be left alone? 
 No, thank you ! " 
 
 "I can fish, and I'm no more afraid to bo 
 left alone than you are ! " said Gypsy, indig- 
 nantly. " I'll go and ask mother." 
 
 She ran down stairs, slamming all the 
 doors, and rushed noisily into the parlor. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! Tom's going to camp out 
 with Mr. Guy Hallam, and can't Sarah and I 
 go, too?" 
 
 : 0h, what now?" said Mrs. Breynton, 
 laughing, and laying down her work. 
 
 "Only for a week, mother, up Eipton 
 just think ! With a tent and a fire, and Mr. 
 Hallam to take care of us." 
 
 This last remark was a stroke of policy on 
 Gypsy's part, for Tom had come in, and it 
 touched a bit of boy's pride, of which Gypsy 
 was perfectly aware he had a good deal.
 
 182 GYTSY BBETKTON. 
 
 "As if I couldn't take as good care of }*ou 
 as Guy Hallani, or the next man ! " he said, 
 in an insulted tone. 
 
 "Then Tom is willing you should go," 
 observed Mrs. Breynton. 
 
 "Why I don't know," said Tom, who 
 had not intended to commit himself; "1 
 didn't say so." 
 
 " But you will say so now, there's a deal 
 good Tom ! ". said Gypsy, giving him a soft 
 kiss on one cheek. Gypsy did not very often 
 kiss Tom unless he asked her, and it was the 
 best argument she could have used; for, 
 though Tom always pretended to be quite 
 above any interest in such tender proceed- 
 ings, yet this rogue of a sister looked so pink 
 and pretty and merry, with her arms about 
 his neck and her twinkling eyes looking into 
 his, that there was no resisting her. Gypsy 
 was quite conscious of this little despotism, 
 and was enough of a diplomatist to reserve it 
 for rare and important occasions.
 
 CAMPING OUT. 183 
 
 "We ell," said Tom, slowly; r l don't 
 know as I care, if Hallam doesn't just foi 
 once, you understand ; you're not to ask me 
 again as long as you live." 
 
 "There, there ! " cried Gypsy, clapping her 
 hands, and jumping up and down. "Tom, 
 you arc a cherub a wingless cherub. Now, 
 mother ! " 
 
 " But supposing it rains ? " suggested Mrs. 
 Breyntou. 
 
 " Oh, we'll take our water-proofs." 
 
 "The tent will be diy enough," put in Tom, 
 bringing in his forces like a good soldier, 
 now he was fairly enlisted. 
 
 "But if you catch cold and get sick, my 
 dear ; Tom won't want to cut short his excur- 
 sion to bring you home." 
 
 "There's Mr. Fisher, right on top of the 
 mountain ; he'd bring me in his wagon. Be- 
 sides, I wouldn't be silly enough to get 
 bick." 
 
 "But Sarah might."
 
 184 GYPSY BEEYNTON. 
 
 "Sarah does as I tell her," said Gypsy* 
 significantly. "I should take care of her.'' 
 
 "But Mrs. Howe may not be willing Sar-ih 
 should go, and Mr. Guy Hallam must be 
 asked, Gypsy." 
 
 "Well, but ," persisted Gypsy; "if 
 
 Mrs. Rowc and Mr. Hallam and everybody 
 are willing, may I go ? " 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Breynton, after a few 
 minutes' thinking, " I guess so ; if Tom will 
 take good care of you ; and if you will prom- 
 ise to go to Mr. Fisher's the rainy nights 
 I mean if it rains hard." 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother Breynton ! There 
 never was such a dear little woman in this 
 world ! " 
 
 "Why, my dear!" said Mr. Breynton, 
 when he heard of it ; " how can you let the 
 child do such a thing ? She will foil off the 
 precipice, ot walk right into a bear's deu, tho 
 first thing."
 
 CAMPING OUT. 185 
 
 " Oh, I'll trust her," answered her mother, 
 smiling ; " and then, Mrs. Fisher will be so 
 Lear, and so ready to take care of her if it is 
 cold or wet ; it isn't as if she were going off 
 into a wild place ; of course, then, I shouldn't 
 let her go without some grown woman with 
 them." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I suppose you know best. 
 I believe I agreed to let you do as you please 
 with your girl, seeing she's the only one." 
 
 Mrs. Rowe was willing if Mrs. Breynton 
 were willing ; Mr. Guy Hallam had no objec- 
 tions. Sarah was delighted, Gypsy radiant, 
 Tom patronizing, and Winnie envious, and 
 so, amid a pleasant little bustle, the prepara- 
 tions began, and one sunny morning the party 
 stowed themselves and their baggage com- 
 fortably away in Mr. Surly's double-seated 
 wugon (much to the horror of his excellent 
 -wife, who looked out of the window, and 
 wondered if Miss Eowe did expect that wild
 
 186 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 young un of hers to come home alive) , and 
 trotted briskly out of Yorkbury, along the 
 steep, uneven road that led to the moun- 
 tain. 
 
 Ripton was a long ride from Yorkbury, and 
 the wagon was somewhat crowded, owing to 
 the presence of Mr. Surly, who was by no 
 means a thin man, and who acted as driver. 
 He was to return with his "team," as the 
 Vermont farmers invariably call their vehicle?, 
 and when the party were ready to come home 
 Mr. Fisher was to be hired to bring them 
 down. It would have been unsafe for any 
 but an experienced driver to hold the reins 
 on those mountain roads, as Gypsy was con- 
 vinced, afresh, before the ride was over. 
 
 For the first few miles the way led along 
 the beautiful valley of the Otter Creek, and 
 then grew suddenly steep as they began to 
 ascend the mountain. Such beautiful pictures 
 unfolded before them, as they wound i lowly
 
 CAMPING OUT. 181 
 
 ay, that even Gypsy did not feel like talking, 
 
 and it was a very silent party. 
 
 They passed through pine forests, dense 
 and still, where the wind was hoarse, and 
 startled squirrels flew over the fallen trunks 
 and boughs of ruined trees. They rode close 
 to the edge of sheer precipices four hundred 
 feet down, with trout-brooks, like silver 
 threads, winding through the gorges. Great 
 walls of rock rose above and around them, 
 and seemed to shut them in with a frown. 
 Sharp turns in the road brought them sud- 
 denly to the edge of abysses from which, in 
 dark nights, they might have easily ridden 
 off. Gay flowers perfumed the fresh, high 
 winds, and rank mosses grew and twined, 
 and hung thickly upon old s tones and logs and 
 roadside banks, where the mountain sloped 
 steeply. Far above were the tops of those 
 tail, sentinel trees, called, by Vermouters, the 
 Procession of Pines, that tower above theil
 
 188 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 lesser comrades two by two, regular, solemn, 
 and d?.rk against the sky for miles of forest- 
 track. Between these, were patches and 
 glimpses of a sky without a cloud. Gypsy 
 had seen it all many times before ; but it was 
 always new and grand to her ; it always made 
 the blood leap in her veins and the stars 
 twinkle in her eyes, and set her happy heart 
 to dreaming a world of pleasant dreams. 
 
 She was leaning back against the wagon- 
 seat, with her face up-turned, to watch the 
 leaves nutter in the distant forest-top, when 
 Mr. Surly reined up suddenly, and the wagon 
 stopped w r ith a jerk. 
 
 " I declare ! " said Mr. Guy Hallam. 
 
 ** Waal, this is sum'at of a fix neow," said 
 Mr. Surly, climbing out over the wheel. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Gypsy and 
 Sarah, in one breath, jumping up to see. 
 
 " Matter enough," said Tom. 
 
 For, turning a sharp corner just ahead of
 
 CAMPING OUT. 189 
 
 lliciij, was a huge wood-cart, drawn by two 
 struggling horses. The road was just wide 
 enough for one vehicle ; where their wagon 
 stood, it would have been simply impossible 
 to place two abreast. At their right, the 
 wooded slope rose like a wall. At their left, 
 a gorge two hundred feet deep yawned hor- 
 ribly, and the trout-brook gurgled over its 
 stones. 
 
 "You hold on there," shouted the driver 
 of the wood-cart ; " I'll turn in here anigh the 
 mountain. You ken git by t'other side, can't 
 you ? " 
 
 "Reckon so," said Mr. Surly, measuring 
 the distance with his eye. He climbed in 
 again, and took the reins, and the driver of 
 the wood-cart wheeled up into a little semi- 
 circular Avideniug of the road where a sand- 
 heap had been dug away. The space left 
 was just wide enough for a carriage to pass 
 closely withoul grazing the wheels of the
 
 190 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 wood-cart, or the IOAV log which formed the 
 only fence on the edge of the ravine. 
 
 "Oh, we shall certainly tip over and be 
 killed ! Oh clear, let me get out ! " cried 
 Sarah, as the Avagon passed slowly forward. 
 
 " Hush up ! " said Gypsy, quickly. " Tom 
 Mon't let us go, if you act so. Don't you 
 suppose four grown men know better than 
 we do whether it's safe? I'm not afraid a 
 bit." 
 
 Nevertheless, Gypsy and Tom, and even 
 Mr. Hallam, looked narrowly at the old frail 
 log, and down into the gorge where the water 
 was gurgling. Once the wiiecls grazed the 
 log, and it tilted slightly. Sarah screamed 
 aloud. Mr. Surly knew what he was about, 
 however, and knew how to do it. He passed 
 on safely into the wider road, and the wood- 
 cart rattled composedly on. 
 
 w There air'd a ben a purty close shave m 
 the night," he remarked, coolly, pointing with
 
 CAMPING OUT. llU 
 
 bis whip down the precipice. "There was a 
 team went down here five years ago, jist off 
 that maple-tree there, horse, wagiu, und all, 
 an' two men, brothers they was, too ; one 
 man hung onto a branch or suthin', and was 
 ketched and saved ; t'other one got crushed to 
 jelly. It was a terrible dark night." 
 
 Even Gypsy gave a little shiver during this 
 entertaining conversation, and was glad they 
 had come up in the daytime. 
 
 Mr. Surly drove to a certain by-road in 
 the woods, where he left them, and returned 
 home ; and the party proceeded on foot, with 
 their baggage, to the place Mr. Hal] am had 
 chosen as a camp-ground. 
 
 It was a pleasant spot, far enough in the 
 woods to be still and wild, near enough to 
 the little settlement on top of the mountain 
 to be free from bears, as Sarah had required 
 to be informed ten separate times, on the 
 Way. There was a little, natural clearing
 
 192 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 among the trees, which Mr. Hallam and Tom 
 made larger by cutting down the shrubbery 
 and saplings. They had brought h;,tcheta 
 with them, as well as guns, knives, and fish 
 hooks. It seemed very warlike and real, 
 Gypsy thought quite as if they intended to 
 spend the rest of their lives there. She al- 
 most wished a party of Indians would come 
 and attack them, or a bear or a wolf. 
 
 Having selected a smooth, level spot for 
 the tents, Mr. Hallain thought they had bet- 
 ter put them up immediately. It chanced 
 that he and Tom each owned one, which was 
 a much better arrangement than the dividing 
 of one into two apartments. The two were 
 placed side by side, and the girls' tent was 
 distinguished and honored by a bit of a flag 
 on' top, and an extra fold of rubber-cloth in 
 front, to keep out the rain. There was also 
 a ditch dug around it, to drain off the water, 
 in case of a severe storm.
 
 CAMPtNG OUT. 193 
 
 w Besides, if it rains very hard, they cau be 
 sent to Mr. Fisher's," said Tom. 
 
 "Catch me!" said Gypsy. "Why, it 
 would be all the fun to sleep out in the rain." 
 
 While Mr. Hallam and Tom were setting 
 up the tents and it took a long time tho 
 two girls busied themselves unpacking the 
 baggage. They were really astonished to 
 find how much they had brought, when it 
 was all taken out of the baskets and boxes 
 and bags, and each article provided with a 
 place within or without the tents. To begin 
 with, the little girls had each a bag of such 
 things as were likely to be necessary for their 
 mountain toilet, consisting principally of dry 
 stockings ; for, -as Gypsy said, they expected 
 to wet then* feet three or four times a day, 
 and she should enjoy IL for once. Then 
 they had brought their long water-proof 
 cloaks, in which they considered themselves 
 safe from a deluge. There were plenty of
 
 11)4 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 fish-lines, and tin pans and kettles, and 
 knive^ and steel forks, and matches, and 
 scissors and twine and needles, and the end- 
 less variety of accoutrements necessary to a 
 state of highly-civilized camp-life. Tiiero 
 were plates, and mugs and pewter tea- 
 spoons, Mrs. Breynton would not consent 
 to letting her silver ones go, and Gypsy 
 thought the others were better, because it 
 seemed more like " being wild." Indeed, she 
 would have dispensed with spoons altogether, 
 but Sarah gave a little scream at the idea, 
 and thought she couldn't possibly eat a meal 
 without. Then the provision basket was full 
 of bread and butter and cake and pies, and 
 summer apples and salt and pepper, and 
 Indian meal and coffee, and eggs and raw 
 meat, and fresh vegetables. They expected, 
 however, to live chiefly on the trout which 
 Mr. Hallam and Tom were to catch, and Mrs. 
 Fisher would supply tfem with fresh milk 
 from her dairy.
 
 CAMPING OUT. 195 
 
 The girls made their toilet ai raiigcmcnt* 
 m one corner of their tent. A rough box 
 served as a dressing-table, and Sarah had 
 brought a bit of a looking-glass, which she 
 put on top of it. They collected piles of 
 sweet, dry leaves for a bed, and a certain 
 thoughtful mother had tucked into their bags 
 a pair of sheets and a blanket ; so they were 
 nicely fitted out. Gypsy had a secret appre- 
 hension that they were preparing for a very 
 luxurious sort of camp-life. After a little 
 consultation, they decided to make two rooms 
 out of their tent, as they were sadly in need 
 of a kitchen. Accordingly they took their 
 heavy blanket shawls, tied them together by 
 the fringe, and hung them up as a curtain 
 across the middle of the tent. The front 
 partment served nicely as a kitchen, and the 
 provisions and crockery were moved in there, 
 in spite of Tom's ungallant remark that he and 
 Mr. Hallam should never sec any of the pies 
 he knew.
 
 196 GYPSY BREYOTON. 
 
 By way of recompense, he took /he guns, 
 and all dangerous implements, under his own 
 care. 
 
 The afternoon was nearly spent, when their 
 preparations were at' last completed, and they 
 were ready to begin house-keeping. 
 
 " Let's have supper," said Gypsy. Gypsy 
 was always ready to have supper, whenever 
 dinner-time was passed. 
 
 " We haven't a single trout," said Tom. 
 
 " It is rather late to fish," said Mr. Hallam. 
 " The little girls are tired and hungry, in- 
 deed we all are, for that matter, and I guess 
 we will have supper." 
 
 Gypsy installed herself as housekeeper-in- 
 general, and she and Sarah lost no time in 
 unpacking the cake and bread and buttei. 
 Tom collected some light, dry brushwood for 
 a fire, and he and Mr. Hallam made the cof- 
 fee. It seemed as if no supper had ever tasted 
 as that supper did. The free mountain air
 
 CAMPING OUT. 197 
 
 was so fresh and strong, and tho breath of 
 the pines so sweet. It was so pleasant to sit 
 on the moss around a fire, and eat with your 
 Cngers if you chose, without shocking any- 
 body. Then the woods looked so wide and 
 lonely and still, and it was so strange to 
 watch the great red sunset dying like a fire 
 through tho thick green net- work, where tho 
 pine-boughs and the maple interlaced. 
 
 For about five minutes after supper waa 
 cleared away, when the great shadows began 
 to darken among the trees, Sarah discoursed 
 in a vague, scientific way, about the habits of 
 bears, and Gypsy had a dim notion that she 
 nhouldn't so very much object to see her 
 mother come walking up the mountain, seized 
 with an uncontrollable desire to spend a night 
 in a tent. But Tom was so pleasant and 
 merry, and Mr. Hallam told such funny 
 stories, that they were laughing before they 
 knew it, and the evening passed happily 
 away.
 
 J98 GYPSY BREYOTON. 
 
 Gypsy could not sleep for some time that 
 night, fo/ delight at spending a night out floors 
 in a real tent on a real mountain, that was 
 known to have an occasional real bear on it 
 She did not feel afraid in the least, although 
 Sarah had a very uncomfortable way of ask- 
 ing her, every ten minutes, if she were per- 
 fectly sure it was safe. 
 
 "Oh, don't ! " said Gypsy, at last. "I am 
 having such a good time thinking that I'm 
 really here. You go to sleep." 
 
 Sarah was so much accustomed to dov'ig as 
 Gypsy told her, that she turned over and v, nt 
 to sleep without another word. It was not a 
 good thing for Gypsy to be so much with just 
 such a girl as Sarah. She was physically tho 
 weaker of the two, as well as the more timid, 
 aad 'he had fallen into a habit of obeying, and 
 Gypsy of commanding, by a sort of mutual 
 tacit agreement. It was partly for this rea- 
 son, as was natural enough, that Gypsy chose
 
 CAM1TXG OUT. 19& 
 
 bcr so often for i companion, but principally 
 because Sarah never refused any rornp or ad- 
 venture ; other timid girls liked to have theii 
 own way and choose their own quiet plays. 
 Sarah's timidity yielded to Gypsy's strongei 
 will. If Gypsy took a fancy to climb a ruined 
 windmill, Sarah would scream all the way, 
 fmt follow. If Gypsy wanted to run at full 
 speed down a dangerous steep hill, where 
 there were walls to be leaped, and loose, roll- 
 ing stones to be dodged, Sarah scolded a 
 little, but went. 
 
 A girl more selfish than Gypsy would have 
 been ruined by this sort of companionship. 
 Her frank, impulsive generosity saved her from 
 becoming tyrannical or dictatorial . The worst 
 of it was, that she was forced to form such a 
 habit of always taking the lead. 
 
 She lay awnke some time that night aftei 
 Sarah had fallen asleep, listening to the 
 strange whispeis of the wind in the trees.
 
 200 GYPSY BKEYTfTON. 
 
 and making plans for to-morrow, till at la&< 
 her happy thoughts faded into happy dreams. 
 
 She did not know how long she had been 
 asleep, when something suddenly woke her. 
 She was a little startled at first by the unfa- 
 miliar sight of the tent-roo^ and narrow, 
 walled space which shut her vr. The wind 
 was sighing drearily through ilv* forest, the 
 distant scream of an owl had an i\*!y sound ; 
 and why no but yes ! auotlivT sounri, 
 more ugly than the c.ry of a night-b.rd, was 
 distinct at the door af the tent tho sound 
 of a quick, panting bivy.tli ! 
 
 Gypsy sat upright ill be<I, and listen^ L 
 
 It grew louder, and cauae nearer; quick, 
 and hoarse, and horrible like the breatbiug 
 of a hungry animal. 
 
 Sarah slept like a baby ; there was not a 
 movement from Tom and Mr. Hallam in the 
 other tent ; f veryth'ng was still but that terri- 
 We sound. Gypsy had good nerves and was
 
 CAMPING OUT. 201 
 
 not easily frightened, but it must be confessed 
 she thought of those traditionary bears which 
 had been seen at Ripton. She had but a 
 moment in which to decide what to do, for 
 the creature was now sniffing at the tent-door, 
 and once she was sure she saw a dark paw 
 lift the sail-cloth. She might wake Sarah, 
 but what was the use? She would only 
 scream, and that would do no good, and 
 might do much harm. If it were a bear, and 
 they kept still, he might go away and leave 
 them. Yet, if it were a bear, Tom must know 
 it in some way. 
 
 All these thoughts passed through Gypsy's 
 mind in that one instant, while she sat listen- 
 ing to the panting of the brute without. 
 
 Then she rose quickly and went on tiptoe 
 to the tent-door. Her hand trembled a little 
 as she touched the canvas gently so gently 
 that it scarcely stirred. She held her breath .
 
 202 GY1SY BKEYNTON. 
 
 sho pat her eye to the partition, she looked 
 out, and saw 
 
 Mr. Fisher's little black dog ! 
 
 Tom was wakened by a long, merry laugh 
 that rang out like a bell on the still night air, 
 and echoed through the forest. He thought 
 Gypsy must be having another fit of somnam- 
 bulism, and Sarah jumped up, with a scream, 
 and asked if it wasn't an Indian. 
 
 The night passed without further adven- 
 ture, and the morning sun woke the girls by 
 peering in at a hole in the tent-roof, and 
 making a little round golden fleck, that 
 danced across their eyelids until they 
 opened. 
 
 They were scarcely dressed, when Tom's 
 voice, with a spice of mischief in it, called 
 Gypsy from outside. The girls hurried out, 
 and there he sat, with Mr. Hallam, before a 
 crackling fire, over which some large fresh 
 (rout were frying in Indian meal.
 
 CAMPING OUT. 203 
 
 * Oh, why didn't you let us go, too?" said 
 Gypsy. 
 
 "We totk the time while you were asleep, 
 on purpose," said Tom, in his provoking fash- 
 ion. "Nobody can do any fishing while girla 
 are round." 
 
 " Tom doesn't deserve any for that speech," 
 said Mr. Plallam, smiling ; " and I shall have 
 to tell of him. It happens that I caught the 
 fish while a certain young gentleman was 
 dreaming." 
 
 "O oh, Tom! Well; but, Mr. Hallam, 
 can't we go fishing to-day ? " 
 
 " To be sure, you can." 
 
 " How long do you suppose you'll stand it? 
 girls always give out in half an hum . 
 
 "I'll stand it as long as you will, sii ! " 
 
 Tom whistled. 
 
 The trout were done to that indescribable, 
 luscious point ^f brown crispncss, and tii6 
 breakfast vas, if possible, bettor than the 
 supper.
 
 204 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 After breakfast, they started on a fishing 
 excursion down the gorge. It was a perfect 
 day. It seemed to the girls that no winds 
 from the valley were ever so sweet and pure 
 as those winds, and no lowland sunshine so 
 golden. The brook foamed and bubbled 
 down its steep, rocky bed, splashed up jets 
 of rainbow spray into the air, and plunged 
 in miniature cascades over tiny gullies ; the 
 wet stones flashed in the light upon the banks, 
 and tall daisies, peering over, painted shifting 
 white outlines of themselves in the swelling 
 current and the shallow pools ; here and there, 
 too, where the water was deep, the fish darted 
 to the surface, and darted out of sight. 
 
 " Isn't it beau tiful ! " cried Sarah. 
 
 "Pretty enough," said Gypsy, affecting 
 carelessness, and trying to unwind he line 
 in as au fait and boyish a manner as possi- 
 ble 
 
 "You girls keep this pool. Mr. Hallam
 
 CAMPING OUT. 205 
 
 tnd I a? ? goin a little ways up stream," said 
 Tom. "Xow don't speak a word, aud ba 
 sure you don't scream if you catch a fish by 
 any chance between you, and frighten them 
 all away." 
 
 "As if I didn't know that! Here, Sarah, 
 hold your rod lower," said Gypsy, assuming 
 a professional air. Mr. Hallam and Tom 
 walked away, and the girls fished for just half 
 an hour in silence. That is to say, they sat 
 on the bank, and held a rod. Sarah had had 
 one faint nibble, but that was all that had 
 happened, and the sun began to be very 
 warm. 
 
 "I'm going out on those stones," said 
 Gypsy. " I believe I see a fish out there." 
 
 So she stepped out carefully on the loose 
 stones, which tilted ominously under bet 
 weight. 
 
 " Oh, you'll frJl ! " said Sarah. 
 
 "Hush sh ! I sec one."
 
 206 GYPSY BEEYNTON. 
 
 Up went the rod in the air with a jerk, 
 over went the stone, and down went Gypsy. 
 She disappeared from sight a moment in tho 
 shallow water ; then splashed up with a gasp, 
 and stood, dripping. 
 
 "Oh, dear me ! " said Sarah. 
 
 Tom came up, undecided whether to laugh 
 or scold. 
 
 "Well, Gypsy Breynton, you've done it 
 now ! Now I suppose you must go directly 
 home, and you'll catch cold before you can 
 get there. This is a pretty fix ! " 
 
 " N no," gasped Gypsy, rubbing the water 
 out of her eyes ; " I have dry clothes up in 
 the tent. Mother said I should want them. 
 I guess I'll go right up. I'm rather wet, 
 I believe." 
 
 Tom looked at his watch, as Gypsy toiled 
 dripping up the bank. The temptation was 
 too great to be resisted, and he called out, 
 
 " Precisely half an hour ! Gypsy, my dear,
 
 CAMFING OUT. 207 
 
 I'd stay all long, as tho boys do, by all 
 means ! " It was a very good thing atioiit 
 Gypsy, that she was quite able to relish a 
 joke at her own expense. She laughed as 
 merrily as Tom did, and the morning's adven- 
 ture made quite as much fun as they would 
 have gained from a string of perfectly respec- 
 table fishes, properly and scientifically caught, 
 with dry feet and a warm seat on the bank 
 under a glaring sun. Mr. Hallam and Tom 
 brought up plenty for dinner ; so no one went 
 hungry. 
 
 That afternoon, it chanced that the girly 
 were left alone for about one hour. Mr. Hal- 
 lam had taken Tom some distance up tho 
 stream for a comfortable little fish by them- 
 selves, and left the girls to prepare supper, 
 with strict injunctions not to go out of sight 
 of the tents. 
 
 They Avcre very well content with the 
 arrangement for a while, but at last Gypsy
 
 208 GYPSY BREiTNTON. 
 
 became tired of heaving no /hing but the tree* 
 to look at, and suggested a visit to the brook. 
 She had seen some checker-berry leaves grow- 
 ing in the gorge, and was seized with a fancy 
 to have them for supper. Sarah, as usual, 
 made no objections, and they went. 
 
 "It's only just out of sight of the tent," 
 said Gypsy, as they ran down over the loose 
 stones; "and we won't be gone but a min- 
 ute." 
 
 But they were gone many minutes. They 
 had little idea how long the time had been, 
 and were surprised to find it growing rapidly 
 dark in the forest when they came panting 
 back to the tent, out of breath with the haste 
 they had made. 
 
 "They must be back by this time," said 
 Gypsy ; " Tom ! " 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 Tom ! Thom-as ! Mr. Hallam 1 " 
 
 A bird chirped in a maple-bough overhead,
 
 CAMPING OUT. 209 
 
 juid a spark cracked out of the smouldering 
 hickory fire ; there was no other sound. 
 
 " I guess they'ro busy in their tent," said 
 Gypsy, going up to it. But the tent was 
 empty. 
 
 " They haven't come ! " exclaimed Sarah. 
 
 " It's real mean in them to leave us here,* 1 
 said Gypsy, looking round among the trees. 
 
 "You know," suggested Sarah, timidly, 
 "you know Mr. Hallam said we were to stay 
 at the tents. Perhaps they came while we 
 were gone, and couldn't find us, and have 
 gone to hunt us up." 
 
 "Oh!" said Gypsy, quickly, "I forgot." 
 She turned away her face a moment, so that 
 Sarah could not see it ; then she turned back, 
 and said, slowly, 
 
 "Sarah, I'm very sorry I took you off. 
 This is rather a bad fix. We must make thi 
 best of it now." 
 
 " Let s call again," said Sarah, faintly.
 
 210 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 They called again, and many times; but 
 there was no reply. Everything was still 
 but the bird, and the sparks that crackled 
 now and then from the fire. The heavy gray 
 shadows grew purple and grew black. The 
 little foot-paths in the woods were blotted out 
 of sight, and the far sky above the tree-tops 
 grew dusky and dim. 
 
 " We might go to Mr. Fisher's, do, Gyp- 
 sy ! I can't bear to stay here," said Sarah, 
 looking around. 
 
 "No," said Gypsy, decidedly. "We can't 
 go to Mr. Fisher's, because that would mis- 
 lead them all the more. We must stay here 
 now till they come." 
 
 "I'm afraid!" said Sarah, clinging to her 
 arm; "it is so dark. Perhaps we'll have to 
 gtay here alone all night, oh, Gypsy ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Gypsy, looking as bold 
 jug possible ; " it wouldn't be so dreadful if we 
 did. Besides, of course, we sha'n't ; they'll
 
 CAMFIXQ OUT. 211 
 
 be back here before long. You go in the 
 tent, if you feel any safer there, and 1 11 make 
 up a bright fire. If they see it, they'll know 
 we've come." 
 
 Sarah went into the tent, and covered her 
 head up in the bed-clothes ; but in about 
 ten minutes she came back, feeling a little 
 ashamed of her timidity, and sat down by 
 Gypsy before the fire. It was a strange pic- 
 ture the ghostly white tents and tangled 
 brushwood gilded with the light; the great 
 forest stretching away darkly beyond ; the 
 fitful shadows and glares from the flickering 
 fire that chased each other in strange, un- 
 couth shapes, among the leaves, and the two 
 children sitting there alone w r ith frightened, 
 watching eyes. 
 
 tt I'm not a bit afraid," said Gypsy, after a 
 silence, in a tone as if she w r ere rather argu- 
 ing with herself than with Sarah. * I think 
 it's rather nice. Tom left his gun all loaded,
 
 212 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 and wo can defend ourselves against any- 
 thing. I'm going to get it, and we'll play 
 we're Union refugees hiding in the South." 
 
 So she went into Tom's tent, and brought 
 out his gun. 
 
 "Look out!" said Sarah, shrinking, "it 
 may go off." 
 
 " Go off? Of course it can't, unless I pull 
 the trigger. I know how to manage a gun, 
 hark ! what's that ? " 
 
 "'Oh dear, oh dear!" said Sarah, begin- 
 ning to cry. " I know it's a bear." 
 
 "Hush ! Let's listen." 
 
 They listened. A curious, irregular tramp- 
 ing round broke the stillness. 
 
 Gypsy stood up quickly, and put the gun 
 into position upon her shoulder. 
 
 "It isn't Tom and Mr. Hallarn, then 
 there would be two. This is only one, and 
 it doesn't sound like a man, I declare." 
 
 w Oh, it's a bear, it's a bear ! We shall be 
 eaten up alive, oh, Gypsy, Gypsy I "
 
 DAMPING OUT. 213 
 
 '* Keep still ! I can shoot him if it is ; but 
 I know it isn't ; just wait and see." 
 
 The curio'is sound came nearer; tramped 
 through the underbrush ; crushed -the dead 
 twigs. Gypsy's finger was on the trigger; 
 her face a little pale. She thought the idea 
 of the bear all nonsense ; she did not know 
 what she feared; the very mystery of the 
 thing had thoroughly frightened her. 
 
 "Keep still, Sarah; you hit me. I don't 
 want to fire till I see." 
 
 " Oh, it's coming, it's coming ! " cried Sa- 
 rah; starting back with a scream. She clung, 
 in her terror, to Gypsy's arm ; jerked it ; the 
 trigger snapped, and a loud explosion echoed 
 and re-echoed and reverberated among the 
 trees. 
 
 It was followed by a sound the most horri- 
 ble Gypsy had heard in all her life. 
 
 It was a human cry. It was Tom's voice.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 TILE END OF THE WEEK. 
 
 )YPSY threw down the gun, and thre* 
 up her hands with a curious quick 
 motion, like one in suffocation, who 
 was trying to find a voice ; but she 
 did not utter a sound. 
 
 There was an instant's awful stillness. In 
 that instant, it seemed to Gypsy as if she had 
 lived a great many years ; in that instant, even 
 Sarah's frightened cries were frozen. 
 
 Then the bushes parted, and some one 
 sprang through. Gypsy knew the face all 
 blackened and marred with powder the 
 face dearer to her than any on earth but her 
 mother's . So she had not killed him thank 
 God, thank God ! 
 
 " Gypsy, child !" called the dear, familial 
 
 214
 
 THE EXD OI- TIIE WEEK. 215 
 
 voice; "what ails you? You haven't hurl 
 me, but why iii the name of all danger on this 
 earth did you touch " 
 
 But Tom stopped short; for Gypsy tot- 
 tered up to him with such a white, weak look 
 on her face, that he thought the rebound of 
 the gun must have injured her, and caught 
 her in his arms. 
 
 "You're not going to faint! Where are 
 you hurt ? " 
 
 But Gypsy was not hurt, and Gypsy never 
 fainted. She just put her arms about his 
 neck and hid her face close upon his shoulder, 
 and cried as if her heart would break. 
 
 It was a long time before she spoke, only 
 kissing him and clinging to him through hei 
 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 1 "
 
 21 C GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 Just then footc teps came crashing ihrotigh 
 the underbrush, and Mr. Ilullam ran liur- 
 riedly up. 
 
 "Oh, you've found them! Where vero 
 they ? What has happened to Gypsy ? " 
 
 " Let me go," sobbed Gypsy ; " I can't talk 
 just now. I want to go away and cry." 
 
 She broke away from Tom's amis, and 
 into the tent, where she could be alone. 
 
 "What has happened?" repeated Mr. ILil- 
 lam. "We came home in less than an hour, 
 and couldn't find you. We have been to Mr. 
 Fisher's, and hunted everywhere. I was call- 
 ing for you in the gorge when Tom found 
 you." 
 
 Sarah was left to tell their story ; which she 
 did with remarkable justness, considering how 
 frightened she was. She shared with Gypsy 
 the blame of having left the tents, and insisted 
 that it was her fault that the gun went off. 
 Before the account was quite finished, Gypsy
 
 THE END OF T1IE WEEK. 217 
 
 called Toin from the tent-door, and he went 
 to her. 
 
 She was quiet, and very pale. 
 
 w Oh, Tom, I am so sorry ! I didn't think 
 I should be gone so long." 
 
 "It was very dangerous, Gypsy. You 
 might have been lost, or you might have 
 had to spend the night here alone, while we 
 were hunting for you." 
 
 " I know it, I know it ; and Sarah was sc 
 frightened, and I was too, a little, and Sarah 
 thought you were a bear." 
 
 " I have told you a great many times that 
 it is never safe for you to touch my gun,' 
 riaid Tom, gravely. He felt that Gypsy's 
 carelessness might have brought about too 
 terrible consequences, both to herself and to 
 bun, to be passed by lightly ; and he had an 
 idea that, as long as her mother was not there 
 to tell her so, he must. 
 
 But Gypsy dropped her head, and looked
 
 218 GYISY BREYNTON. 
 
 BO humble and wretched, that he had not the 
 heart to say any more. 
 
 Gypsy was sure all the pleasure of her 
 camping-out was utterly spoiled; but there 
 was a bright sun the next morning, and Tom 
 was so kind and pleasant, and the birds were 
 singing, and the world didn't look at all as 
 if she had nearly killed her brother twelve 
 hours before ; so she found she was laughing 
 hi spite of herself, and two very happy days 
 passed after that. Mr. Hallam made a 
 rule that he or Tom should keep the girls 
 constantly in sight, and that, during the time 
 spent in excursions which they could not 
 join, they should remain in Mr. Fisher's 
 house. He said it was too wild a place for 
 them to be alone in for any length of time, 
 and he was sorry he left them before. 
 
 Gypsy did not resent this strict tutelage. 
 She was very humble and obedient and care- 
 ful as long as they stayed upon the uio'.mlaiii*
 
 TTIE END OF THE WEEK. 219 
 
 Those few moments, when she clung sobbing 
 to Tom's neck, were a lesson to her. Sha 
 will not forget them as long as she lives. 
 
 At the end of the fourth clay, just at sup- 
 per time, a dark cloud sailed over the sky, 
 and a faint wind blew from the east. 
 
 " I wonder if it's going to rain," said Mr. 
 ILillam. They all looked up. Gypsy said 
 nothing ; in her secret heart, she hoped it 
 would. 
 
 "What about sending the girls to Mrs. 
 Fisher's ? " asked Tom, when they were wash- 
 ing 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 
 awav, and the wind was still. After think- 
 ing a while, Mr. Hallam decided to let them 
 utay.
 
 220 GYPSY BRZYNTON. 
 
 Ir the middle of the night, Gypsy ;vaa 
 wakened by a great noise. The wind was 
 blowing a miniature hurricane through the 
 trees, and the rain was falling in torrents. 
 She could hear it spatter on the canvas roof, 
 and drop from the poles, and gurgle in a 
 stream through the ditch. She could hear, 
 too, the loud, angry murmur of the trout 
 brook and the splashing of hundreds of rivu- 
 lets that dashed down the slope and over the 
 gorge into it. 
 
 She gave Sarah a little pinch, and woko 
 her up. 
 
 " Oh, Sarah, it's come ! It's raining like 
 everything, and here we are, and we can't 
 get to Mr. Fisher's isn't it splendid ? " 
 
 "Ye es," said Sarah; "it's very splendid, 
 only isn't it a little wet? It's dropping 
 right on my cheek." 
 
 " Oh, that's nothing why, here 1 can put 
 <ny hand right down into a puddle of water 
 It's just like being at sea."
 
 THE EXD OF THE WEEK. 221 
 
 * I know it. Are people at sea always so 
 
 cold?" 
 
 " Why, I'm not cold. Only w might as 
 well wear our water-proofs. The leaves are 
 a little damp." 
 
 So they put on their tweed cloaks, ""M 
 Gypsy listened to the wind, and thought it 
 was very poetic and romantic, and that she 
 was perfectly happy. And just as she had 
 lain down again there came a great gust of 
 rain, and one of the rivulets that were sweep- 
 ing down the mountain splashed in under the 
 canvas, and ran right through the middle of 
 the tent like a brook. Sarah jumped up 
 with energy. 
 
 " O oh, it's gone right over my feet ! " 
 
 " My shoes are sailing away, as true as you 
 live I " cried Gypsy, and sprang just in time 
 to save them. 
 
 The dinner-basket and a tin pail were 
 fast following, when Tom appeared upon
 
 222 G1TSY BBEYXTCCf. 
 
 the scene, and called through the wall cl 
 shawls, 
 
 "Gills, you'll have to go to Mrs. Fishers. 
 Be quick as you can ! " 
 
 "I don't want to a lit," said Gypsy, who 
 was sitting in a pool of water. 
 
 "TTell, I'm going," announced Sarah, with 
 anheard-of decision. w Camping out is very 
 nice, but drowning is another thing." 
 
 w Well I suppose it would be a little 
 dryer," said Gypsy, slowly. 
 
 The girls were soon dressed, and Tom 
 lighted a lantern and went with them. A 
 few peals of thunder growled sullenly down 
 the valley, and one bright flash of lightning 
 glared far through the forest. Sarah was 
 afraid she should be struck. Gypsy was 
 thinking how grand it was, and wished :he 
 could be out in a midnight storm every' 
 week. 
 
 It was after midnight, and every one at
 
 THE END OF THE WEEK. 223 
 
 Mr. Fisher's was asleep ; bat Tom knocked 
 them up, and Mr. Fisher was very much 
 unused, and Mrs. Fisher was very kind and 
 hospitable, and built up a fire, and said they 
 should be perfectly dry and warm before they 
 went to bed. 
 
 So the girls bade Tom good-night, and 
 he went back to Mr. Hallam, and they, feel- 
 ing very cold and sleepy and drenched, were 
 glad enough to be taken care of, and put to 
 bed like babies, after Airs. Fisher's good, 
 motherly fashion. 
 
 " Sarah," said Gypsy, sleepily, just as Saran 
 was beginning to dream. "A feather-bed, 
 and and^iTlows ! (with a little jump to keep 
 awake long enough to finish her sentence) are 
 a little better on the whole than a mud 
 pud " 
 
 Just there she went to sleep. The next 
 day it poured from morning till night. That 
 was just what Air. Hallam and Tom liked, so
 
 221 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 they fishod all day, and the girls amused 
 themselves as best they might in Mr. Fisher's 
 barn. The day after it rained in snatches, 
 and the sun shone in little spasms between. 
 A council of exigencies met in Mr. Hallam's 
 tent, and it was unanimously decided to go 
 home. Even Gypsy began to long for civil- 
 ized life, though she declared that she had 
 never in all her life had such a good time as 
 she had had that week. 
 
 So Mr. Fisher harnessed and drove them 
 briskly down the mountain, and "from afar 
 off" Gypsy saw her mother's face, watching 
 for her at the door a little anxic us ; very 
 glad to see her back.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 
 
 {JST at the end of the vacation, it wai 
 suddenly announced that Miss Melville 
 
 Vl/ was not going to teach any more. 
 
 " How funny ! " said Gypsy. K Last 
 term she expected to, just as much as any- 
 thing. I don't sec what's the reason. Now 
 I shall have to go to the high school." 
 
 It chanced that they were remodelling some 
 of the rooms at the high school, and the win- 
 ter term, which would otherwise have com- 
 menced in September, was delayed till the 
 first of October. 
 
 Gypsy had jumped on all the hay-cocks, 
 and picked all the huckleberries, and eaten 
 all the early Davises, and gone on all the
 
 22 P GYTSY BREYN1ON. 
 
 picnic- that she could, and was just ready to 
 settle down contentedly to school and study ; 
 so the news from Miss Melville was not, on 
 the whole, very agreeahln. What to do with 
 herself, for another long mouth of vacation, 
 was more than she knew. 
 
 She wandered about the house and sat out 
 among the clovers and swung on the gate, 
 in a vague, indefinite sort of way, for two 
 weeks ; then one morning Mrs. Breyuton read 
 her a letter which set her eyes on fire with 
 delight. It was an invitation from her aunt 
 to spend a fortnight in Boston. It so hap- 
 pened that Gypsy had never been to Boston. 
 It was a long day's journey from Yorkbury, 
 and Mr. Breyntou was not much in favor of 
 expensive travelling for the children while 
 they were very young; arguing that the 
 enjoyment and usefulness would be doubled 
 to them when they were older. Besides, 
 Gypsy's uncle, though he was her father's
 
 GYPSY S OPINION OF BOSTON. 227 
 
 brother, had seldom visited Yorkbury. Hia 
 business kept him closely at home, and his 
 wife and daughter always went to the seaside 
 in summer ; so the two families had seen very 
 (ittle of each other for years. 
 
 Mrs. Breynton, however, thought it best 
 Gypsy should make this visit ; and Gypsy, 
 who had lived twelve years n a State which 
 contained but one city, considered going to 
 Boston very much as she would have con- 
 sidered going to Paradise. 
 
 It took a few days of delightful hurry and 
 bustle to get ready. There was much wash- 
 ing and mending and altering, sewing on ot 
 trimmings and letting down of tucks, to be 
 done for her ; for Mrs. Breynton desired to 
 spare her the discomfort of feeling " countri- 
 fied," and Yorkbury style w r as not distinc- 
 tively a la Paris. She told Gypsy, frankly, 
 that she must expect to find her cousin Joy 
 letter dressed than herself; but that her
 
 228 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 wardrobe should be neat and tasteful, and ill 
 as much accordance with the prevailing mode 
 as was practicable ; so she hoped she would 
 have too much self-respect to be troubled by 
 the difference. 
 
 "I hope I have," said Gypsy, with an em- 
 phasis. 
 
 The days passed so quickly that it seemed 
 like a dream when she had at last bidden 
 them all good-by, kissed her mother just ten 
 times, and was fairly seated alone in the cars, 
 holding on veiy tightly to her ticket, and 
 wondering if the men put her trunk in. Al- 
 though she was so little used to travelling, 
 having never been farther than to Burlington 
 or Vergennes in her life, yet she was not in the 
 Least afraid to take the journey alone. Her 
 mother felt sure she could take care of her- 
 self, and her father had given her so many 
 directions, and written such careful memo- 
 randa for her, of changes of cars, refreshment
 
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 229 
 
 stations, what to do with her check, and how 
 / look after her baggage, that she felt sure 
 she could not make a mistake. Being a 
 bright, observing child, fearless as a boy, 
 and not in the least inclined to worry, she 
 hud no trouble at all. The conductor was 
 very kind ; an old gentleman, who was pleased 
 with her twinkling eyes and red cheeks, gave 
 her an orange, and helped look after her bag- 
 gage ; two old ladies gave her fennel and pep- 
 permints ; and before she reached Boston she 
 was on terms of intimacy with six babies, a 
 lapdog, and a canary-bird. Altogether, it 
 had been a most charming journey, and she 
 was almost sorry when they reached the city, 
 ind the train rolled slowly into the dark 
 depot. 
 
 The passengers were crowding rapidly out, 
 the lamps were lighted in the car, and she 
 felt a little lonely sitting still there, and wait- 
 uig for her uncle. She had not waited but
 
 ,230 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 a moment, however, when a pleasant whis- 
 kered face appeared at the car-door, and one 
 of those genial, " off-hand " voices, that sound 
 at once so kindly and so careless, called 
 out, 
 
 O ho ! So here's the girl ! Glad to 
 see you, child. This way; the hack's all 
 ready." 
 
 She was hurried into a carriage, her trunk 
 was tossed on behind, and then the door was 
 shut, and they were driven rapidly away 
 through a maze of crooked streets, glare of 
 gaslights, and brilliant shop-windows, that 
 bewildered Gypsy. She had a notion that 
 was the way fairy-land must look. Her 
 uncle laughed, good-naturedly, at her wide- 
 cpeii eyes. 
 
 t! Boston is a somewhat bigger village than 
 Torkbury, I suppose ! How's your father? 
 Why didn't he come with you? Is your 
 mother well ? And that boy Liunie Silly 
 whsxt do call him?"
 
 GYTSY'S OPINION or BOSTON. 231 
 
 * Winne, sir ; and then there's Tom." 
 w Winnie oh, yes ! Tom well, too r " 
 Before the ride was over, Gypsy had com* 
 to the conclusion that she liked her uncle very 
 much, only he had such a funny way of ask- 
 ing questions, and then forgetting all about 
 them. 
 
 The driver reined up at a house on Beacon 
 Street, and Gypsy was led up a long flight of 
 steps through a bright hall, and into a room 
 that dazzled her. A bright coal-fire was 
 glowing in the grate, for it was a chilly even- 
 ing, and bright jets of gas were burning in 
 chandeliers. Bright carpets and curtains, 
 furniture, pictures, and ornaments covered 
 the length of two parlors separated only by 
 folding-doors, and mirrors, that reached from 
 the floor to the ceiling, reflected her figure 
 full length, as she stood in the midst of tht> 
 magnificence, in her Yorkbury hat and home 
 made casque.
 
 232 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "Sit down, sit down," said her uncle ; TU 
 call your aunt. I don't see where they are ; 
 I told them to be on hand, Kate, where's 
 Mrs. Breynton?" 
 
 w She's op-stairs, sir, dressing," said tho 
 servant, who had opened the door. 
 
 " Tell her Miss Gypsy has come ; sit dovrn, 
 child, and make yourself at home." 
 
 Gypsy sat down, and Mr. Breynton, not 
 satisfied with sending a message to his wife, 
 vent to the foot of the stairs, and called, 
 
 " Miranda ! Joy ! " 
 
 A voice from somewhere above answered, a 
 little sharply, that she was coming as fast as 
 she could, and she told Joyce to go down 
 long ago, but she hadn't stirred. 
 
 Gypsy heard every word, and she bcgac 
 to wonder if her aunt were veiy glad to see 
 her, and what sort of a girl her coirin must 
 be, if she didn't obey her mother ui less she 
 chose to. Just then Joy camo do\\ a stairs,
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 233 
 
 walking very slov. ly and properly, and came 
 into the parlor with the manners of a young 
 lady of eighteen. She might have been a 
 pretty child, if she had been dressed more 
 plainly and becomingly; but her face was 
 pale and thin, and there was a fretful look 
 about her mouth, that almost spoiled it. 
 
 Gypsy went up warmly, and kissed her. 
 Joy had extended the tips of her fingers to 
 shake hands, and she looked a little surprised, 
 but kissed her politely, and asked if she were 
 tired with the journey. Just then Mrs. 
 Breynton came in, with many apologies foi 
 her delay, met Gypsy kindly enough, and 
 sent her up-stairs to take off her things. 
 
 " Who trimmed your hat ? " asked Joy, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Miss Jones. She's our milliner." 
 
 "Oh," said Joy, "mine is a pheasant. No- 
 body tliinks of wearing velvet now, - most 
 everybody has a pheasant."
 
 234 GYFSY BEEYNTON. 
 
 " I shouldn't like to wear just what every, 
 body else did," Gyp,y could not help saying. 
 She hung the turban up in the closet, with 
 a little uncomfortable feeling. It was a fine 
 drub straw, trimmed and bound with velvet 
 a shade darker. It was pretty, and she knew 
 it; it just matched her casaquc, and her 
 mother had thought it all the more lady-like 
 for its simplicity. Nevertheless, it was not 
 going to be very pleasant to have her cousin 
 Joy ashamed of her. 
 
 w Oh, oh, how short they wear dresses in 
 Yorkbury ! " remarked Joy, as Gypsy walked 
 across the room. " Mine are nearly to the 
 lops of my boots, now I'm thirteen years 
 old." 
 
 "Are they? where did I put my bag?" 
 gaid Gypsy, carelessly. Joy looked a little 
 piqued that she vlid not seem more impressed. 
 
 " There's dinner," she said, after a silence, 
 m which she had been secretly inspecting and
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION or BOSTON. 235 
 
 commenting upon eveiy article of Gypsy's 
 attire. "Ccme, let's go down. Mother scolde 
 if we're late. 
 
 " Scolds 1 " said Gypsy. * How funny ! my 
 mother never scolds." 
 
 "Doesn't she?" asked Joy, a little wonder 
 in her eyes. 
 
 w It seems so queer to have dinner at six 
 o'clock," said Gypsy, confidentially, as they 
 went down stairs. " At home they are just 
 sitting down to supper." 
 
 Joy laughed patronizingly. 
 
 "Oh, yes; I suppose you're used to conn 
 try hours." 
 
 For the second time, G}^psy felt uncomfort- 
 able. She would very much have liked to 
 ask her cousin what there was to be ashamed 
 of in being used to country hours, when you 
 lived in the country. But they had reached 
 the dining-room door, and her aunt was call- 
 ing out somewhat fretfully to Joy to hurry ; 
 BO she said nothing.
 
 236 GYPSY BEEYNTON. 
 
 After supper, her uncle said she looked 
 very im ch like her father, hoped she would 
 oiuke herself at home, thought her a little 
 taller than Joyce, and then was lost to view, 
 for the evening, behind his newspaper. Tier 
 mint inquired if she could play on the piano ; 
 was surprised to find she knew nothing moro 
 classical than chants and Scotch airs ; told 
 Joy to let her hear that last air of Von We- 
 ber's ; and then she took up a novel which 
 was lying partially read upon the table. 
 When Joy was through playing, she proposed 
 a game of solitaire. Gypsy would much 
 rather have examined the beautiful and costly 
 ornaments with which the rooms were filled ; 
 but she was a little too polite and a little too 
 proud to do so, unasked. 
 
 "What do you play most?" she asked, as 
 they began to move the figures on the solitaire 
 board. 
 
 "Oh," said Joy, "I practise three hours,
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 237 
 
 and that takes all tha time wheii I'm in school. 
 In vacations I don't know, I like to walk 
 in Commonwealth Avenue pretty well ; then 
 mother has a good deal of company, ar.d I 
 always come down." 
 
 " Only go to walk, and sit still in the par- 
 lor ! " exclaimed Gypsy ; " dear me ! " 
 
 "Why, what do you do?" 
 
 "Me? Oh, I jump on the hay and ruu 
 down hills and poke about in the swamp." 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 "Push myself round on a raft in the or- 
 chard-swamp ; it's real fun." 
 
 " Why, I never heard of such a thing ! ' 
 said Joy, looking shocked. 
 
 " Well, it's splendid ; you ought to come 
 up to Yorkbury, and go out with me. Tom 
 would make you a raft." 
 
 " What do the people say ? " said Joy, look 
 ing at her mother. 
 
 "Oh, there arei.'t any people there to see
 
 238 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 If there wore, they wouldn't say anything, 
 I have just the nicest times. Winnie and 1 
 tipped over last spring, clear over, splash ! " 
 
 "You will ruin your complexion," re- 
 marked her aunt, laying doAvn her novel . " 1 
 suppose you never wear a veil." 
 
 "A veil? Dear me, no ! I can't bear tho 
 feeling of a veil. I wore one in the cars 
 through, to keep the cinders off. Then, be- 
 sides that, I row and coast, and, oh, I for- 
 got, walking on the fences ; it's real fun if you 
 don't tumble off." 
 
 " Walking on the fences!" 
 
 " Oh, yes. I always go in the fields where 
 there's nobody round. Then I like to climb 
 the old walls, where you have to jump when 
 the stones roll off from under you." 
 
 Mrs. Breyntou elevated her eyebrows with 
 a peculiai expression, and returned to her 
 novel. 
 
 Gypsy was one of those happy people wb<?
 
 GYPSY'S ormiON OF BOSTON. 239 
 
 ATO gifted witL the faculty of always having 
 a pleasant time, and the solitaire game wa& 
 good enough, if it hadn't been so quiet ; but 
 when she went up to bed, she looked some- 
 what sober. She bade Joy good-night, shut 
 herself into the handsomely-furnished room 
 which had been given her, sat down on the 
 door, and winked hard several times. She 
 would not have objected at that moment to 
 seeing her mother, or Tom, or pulling her 
 father's whiskers, or squeezing "Winnie a 
 little, or looking into the dear, familiar sit- 
 ting-room where they were all gathered just 
 then to have prayers. She began to have a 
 vague idea that there was no place like home. 
 She also came to the conclusion, very faintly, 
 and feeling like a traitor all the time, that her 
 Aunt Miranda was very fashionable and very 
 fretful, and dil not treat Joy at all as her 
 mother treated her; that Joy thought her 
 countrified, and had never walked on a fence
 
 240 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 in all her life ; that her uncle was Very good v 
 hut very busy, and that a fortnight was a 
 tath-ei long time to stay there. 
 
 However, her uncle's house was not tho 
 whole of Boston. All the delights of the 
 great, wonderful city remained unexplored, 
 and who could tell what undreamed-of joys 
 to-morrow would bring forth ? 
 
 o Gypsy's smiles came back after their 
 usual punctual fashion, and she fell asleep as 
 soon as her head touched the pillow, to dream 
 that she was sitting in Tom's lap, reading an 
 Arabic. novel aloud to Winnie. 
 
 It might have been about half an hour 
 after, that she woke suddenly with a terrible 
 feeling in her lungs and throat, and sat up in 
 bed gasping, to see the door burst open, and 
 her aunt come rushing in. 
 
 "Is the house on fire?" asked Gypsy, 
 sleepily. 
 
 * House on fire ! It might have been. 
 It's a wonder you're alive 1 "
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 241 
 
 " Alive ! " repeated Gypsy, bewildered. 
 f: Why, child, you blew out the gas ! " said 
 der aunt, sharply, throwing open the windows. 
 
 * Didn't you know any better than that?" 
 
 " I'm so used to blowing out our lamps," 
 said Gypsy, feeling very much frightened and 
 ashamed. 
 
 " Country ways ! " exclaimed her aunt. 
 
 * Well, thank fortune, there's no harm done, 
 go to sleep, like a good girl." 
 
 Gypsy did not relish being told to go to 
 sleep like a good girl, when she had done 
 nothing wrong ; nor did her aunt's one chilly 
 kiss, at leaving her, serve to make her forget 
 those few sharp words. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, Joy 
 proposed to go out to walk, and Gypsy ran 
 up to put on her things in great glee. One 
 little circumstance dashed damply on it, like 
 water on glowing coals. 
 
 "How large jour casaque is about the
 
 242 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 neck," said Joy, carelessly. "I like mine 
 email and high, with a binding." 
 
 Gypsy remembered what her mother said ; 
 and, because her casaque happened to be cut 
 after Miss Jones's patterns instead of Madame 
 Demorest's, she did not feel that her char- 
 acter was seriously affected ; but it was not 
 pleasant to have such things said. Her 
 cousin did not mean to be unkind. On th 
 contrary, she had taken rather a fancy t 
 Gypsy. She was simply a little thoughtless 
 and a little vain. Joy is not the only girl in 
 Boston, I am afraid, who has hurt the feel- 
 ings of her country visitors in that careless 
 way. 
 
 " You've never seen the Common, I sup- 
 pose, nor the Public Gardens?" said Joy, as 
 they started off. " We'll walk across to Boyl- 
 stou Street, dear me ! you haven't airy 
 gloves on ! " 
 
 ,'Oh, must I put them on?" said Gypsy,
 
 You're nectrteen the Common, I suppose, nor (he Public Gardtns ?" said, Toy.'
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 213 
 
 tvith a sigh ; " I'm afraid I shan't like Boston 
 if I have to TV ear gloves week-days. I can't 
 bear the feeling of them." 
 
 w I suppose that's what makes your hands 
 BO red and brown," replied Joy, astonished, 
 casting a glance at her own sickly, white 
 fingers, which she was pinching into a pair of 
 very tight kid gloves. 
 
 "Here are the Gardens," she said, proudly, 
 as they entered the inclosure. "Aren't they 
 beautiful? I don't suppose you have any- 
 thing like this in Yorkbury. "We'll go up to 
 the Common in a minute." 
 
 Gypsy looked carelessly around, and did 
 not seem to be very much impressed or in- 
 terested. 
 
 " I'd rather go over into that street where 
 the people and the carriages are," she said. 
 
 "Why!" exclaimed Joy; "don't you like 
 it? See the fountains, and the deei and the 
 grass, and all."
 
 244 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 "I like the deer," said Gypsy ; " only 1 fee 
 go sorry for them." 
 
 * Sorry for them ! " 
 
 " Why, they look so as if they wanted to bo 
 oil' in the woods with nobody round. I like 
 the rabbits better, jumping round at home 
 under the pine-trees. Then I think the trout- 
 brook, at Ripton, is a great deal prettier than 
 these fountains. But then I guess I should 
 like the stores," she said, apologetically, a 
 little afraid she had hurt or provoked Joy. 
 
 "I never saw anybody like you," said Joy, 
 looking puzzled. When they came to Tre- 
 mont, and then to Washington Street, Gypsy 
 was in an ecstasy. She kept calling to Joy 
 to see that poor little beggar girl, or that 
 funny old woman, or that negro boy who was 
 trying to stand on his head, or the handsome 
 feather on that lady's bonnei , and stopped 
 every other minute to see some beautiful toy 
 or picture in a shop-window, till Joy lost all 
 patience.
 
 QITSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 2i5 
 
 w Gypsy Breyuton ! don't keep staring in 
 the windows so ; people will think we are a 
 couple of servant girls just from down East, 
 who never saw "Washington Street before ! " 
 
 "I never did," said Gypsy, coolly. 
 
 But she looked a little sober. What was 
 tlie use of Boston, and all its beautiful sights 
 and busy sounds, if you must walk right 
 along as if you were going to church, and not 
 seem to see nor hear any of the wonders, for 
 fear of being called countrified ? Gypsy be- 
 gan to hate the word. 
 
 " You must take your cousin to the Aqua 
 ml Gardens," said Mr. Breynton to Joy, a, 
 dinner. 
 
 "Oh, I'm tired to death of the Aquarial 
 Gardens," answered Joy; "none of the girl? 
 I go with ever go now, and I've seen it all so 
 many times." 
 
 "But Gypsy hasn't. Try the Museum, 
 then."
 
 248 GYPSY BEE^NTON. 
 
 not laugh at her, and decided to think na 
 more about the matter. 
 
 The first half hour of dinner passed off 
 pleasantly enough. Gypsy was hungry ; for 
 she had just coine home from a long walk to 
 Williams & Everett's picture gallery, and the 
 dinner was very nice ; the only trouble with 
 it being that, there were so many courses, 
 she could not decide what to eat and what to 
 refuse. But after a while a deaf old gentle- 
 man, who sat next her, felt conscientious!}' 
 impelled to ask her where she lived and how 
 old she was, and she had to scream so loud to 
 answer him, that it attracted the attention of 
 all the guests. Then the dessert came and 
 the wine, and an hour and a half had passed, 
 and still no one showed any signs of leaving 
 the table, and the old gentleman made spas- 
 modic attempts at conversation, at intervals 
 of ten minutes. The hour and a half became 
 two hours, and Gypsy was so thoroughly
 
 GYISY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 24? 
 
 tired out sitting still, it seemed as if sko 
 Bhould scream, or upset her finger-bowl, or 
 knock over her chair, or do some terrible 
 thing. 
 
 "Yon 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 toe& 
 under the table, and Gypsy laughed, coughed, 
 seized her goblet, and began to drink violent- 
 ly to conceal her rudeness. 
 
 "Twelve years? and you live in Ver 
 rnont?" remarked the old gentleman placid- 
 ly. This was a drop too much. Gypsy swal- 
 lowed her water the wrong way, strangled 
 and choked, and ran out of the room with 
 crimson face, mortified and gasping. 
 
 dhe knew, by a little flash of her aunt's 
 eyes, that she was ashamed of her, and much 
 displeased. She locked herself into her own 
 room, feeling very miserable and would not
 
 250 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 have gone down stairs again if she had not 
 been sent lor, after the company had returned 
 to the parlors. 
 
 She did not dare to disobey, so she went, 
 and sat down in a corner by the piano, wheie 
 she hoped she should be out of sight. 
 
 A pleasant-faced lady, sitting near, turned, 
 md said, 
 
 " Don't you play, my dear ? " 
 
 * A little," said Gypsy, wishing she could 
 <aave truthfully said no. 
 
 "I wish you would play for me," said the 
 Udy. 
 
 "Oh, I shouldn't like to," said Gypsy, 
 shrinking ; " I don't know anything but Scotch 
 airs." 
 
 "That is just what I like," said the lady. 
 ;r Mrs. Breynton, can't you persuade your 
 niece to play a little for me ? " 
 
 "Certainly, Gypsy," said her aunt, with a 
 look which plainly said, "Don't think of it."
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON. 251 
 
 Gypsy's mother had taught her that it wa* 
 both disobliging and affected to refuse to 
 play when she was asked, no matter how 
 simple her music might be. So, not know- 
 ing how to refuse, and wishing the floor would 
 open and swallow her up, she went to the pi 
 ano, and played two sweet Scotch airs. She 
 played them well for a girl of her age, and 
 the lady thanked her, and seemed to enjoy 
 them. But that night, just as she was going 
 to bed, she accidentally overheard her aunt 
 saying to Joy, 
 
 " It was very stupi d and forward in her. I 
 tried to make her understand, but I couldn't 
 those little songs , too ! Wiry , with all 
 your practice, and such teachers as you have 
 had, I wouldn't think of letting yua play 
 before anybody at your age." 
 
 Gypsy cried herself to sleep that night. 
 
 Just a week from the day that she came to 
 Boston, Gypsy and Joy were out shopping
 
 252 GYPSY BREYOTON. 
 
 in Summer Street. They had ju=t come out 
 of Hovey's, when they met a ragged child, not 
 more than three years old, crying as if its 
 hrart were broken. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " cried Gypsy ; " see that poor 
 little girl ! I'm going to see what's the mat- 
 ter." 
 
 " Don't ! " said Joy, horrified ; " come along ! 
 Nobody stops to speak to beggars in Boston ; 
 what are you doing ? " 
 
 For Gypsy had stopped and taken the 
 child's two dirty little fists down from her 
 eyes, and looked down into the tear-stainef^ 
 and mud-stained face to see what was the 
 matter. 
 
 "I I don't know where nobody is," sob- 
 bed the child. 
 
 " Have you lost your way ? Where do you 
 li^e ? " asked Gypsy, with great, pitying eyes. 
 Gypsy could never bear to see anybody cry ; 
 and then the little creature was so ragged and 
 thia.
 
 GYPsr's OPINION OF BOSTON. 253 
 
 "I live there," said the child, pointing 
 raguely down the street. " Mother's to home 
 there somewhars." 
 
 w I'll go with you and find your mother," 
 said Gypsy, and taking the child's hand, she- 
 started off in her usual impulsive fashion, 
 without a thought beyond her pity. 
 
 K Gypsy ! Gypsy Breyiitoii ! " called Joy. 
 "The police will take her home you 
 mustn't ! " 
 
 But Gypsy did not hear, and Joy, shocked 
 and indignant, went home and left her. 
 
 In about an hour Gypsy came back, flushed 
 and panting with her haste. Joy, in speech- 
 less amazement, had looked from the window 
 and seen her running across the Co mmon. 
 
 Her aunt met her on the stairs vith a face 
 like a thunder-cloud. 
 
 "Why, Gypsy Breynton, I am ashamed of 
 you ! How could you do such a thing as to 
 go off with a beggar, and taJce hold of her
 
 254 GYPSY BKEYNTOX. 
 
 hand right there in Summer Street, and go 
 nobody knows where, alone, into those terri- 
 ble Irish streets ! It was a dreadful thing to 
 do, and I should think you would have known 
 better, and I really think I must write to your 
 mother about it immediately ! " 
 
 Gypsy stood for a moment, motionless with 
 astonishment. Then, without saying a word, 
 she passed her aunt quickly on the stairs, and 
 ran up to her room. Her face was very 
 white. If she had been at homo she would 
 have broken forth in a torrent of angry 
 words. 
 
 Kate, the house-maid, was sweeping the 
 cntiy. 
 
 " Did you know there was going to bo 
 another great dinner to-day, miss? " she said, 
 as Gypsy passed her. 
 
 Gypsy went into her room, and locked her 
 door. Another of those terrible dinner-com- 
 panies, and her aunt so angry at her ! I!
 
 GYPSY'S OPINION or BOSTON. 255 
 
 R-as too n.uch she could not bear it ! She 
 looked about the room twice, passed her 
 hand over her forehead, and her face flushed 
 quickly. 
 
 One of GVDSV'S sudden and often 
 resoluti 3ns was made.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 
 
 O one came to the room. After i vvhile 
 the front door opened and shut, and 
 she saw, from the window, that her 
 aunt and Joy were going out. She 
 then remembered that she had heard them 
 say they had some calls to make at that hour. 
 Her uncle was at the store, and no one was 
 now in the house besides herself, but the ser- 
 vants. 
 
 w All right," she said, half aloud ; " I couldn't 
 have fixed it better." 
 
 For half an hour she stayed in her room 
 with the door locked, and any one listening 
 outside could have heard her moving briskly 
 about, opening drawers and shutting closet 
 
 266
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 25V 
 
 doors. Then she came down stairs and went 
 out. She was gone just about long enough 
 to have been to the nearest hack-stand and 
 back again. A fow minutes after she re- 
 turned, the door-boll rang. 
 
 "I'll go," she called to Kate : "it's a man I 
 sent here on an errand, and I shall have tosco 
 him." 
 
 "Very well, miss," said Kate, and went 
 Binging down the back-stairs with her broom. 
 
 " This way," said Gypsy, opening the door. 
 She led the way to her room, and the man 
 who followed her shouldered her trunk with 
 one hand, and carried it out to a carriage 
 which stood at the door. Gypsy went into 
 her aunt's room and "left a little note on the 
 table where it would be easily seen, threw her 
 veil over her face, /elt of her purse to be sure 
 it was safe in her pocket, and ran hastily 
 down stairs after him, and into the carriage. 
 The man strapped on her trunk, slammed the
 
 258 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 door upon her, and, mounting his box, drove 
 rapidly away. Kate, who happened to be 
 looking out of one of the basement windows, 
 saw the carriage, but did not notice the trunk. 
 She supposed Gypsy was riding somewhere 
 to meet her aunt or uncle, and went on with 
 her dusting. 
 
 The carriage stopped at the Fitchburg de- 
 pot, and Gypsy paid her fare and went into 
 the ladies' room. The coachman, who seemed 
 to be an accommodating man, though a little 
 curious, brought her a check, and hoped she'd 
 get along comfortable ; it was a pretty long 
 journey for such a young creetur to take 
 alone. 
 
 Gypsy thanked him, and going up to the 
 ticket-master, asked him something in a low 
 tone. 
 
 " In just an hour I " said tie ticket-master, 
 in a loud, business-like voice. 
 
 " An hour! So long as that ? "
 
 NO PLACE LIKE IIOME. 259 
 
 "Ye 3, ma'am." 
 
 Gypsy drew her veil very closely about her 
 face, and sat down in the darkest corner she 
 could find. She seemed to be very much 
 afraid of being recognized ; for she shrank 
 from every new-comer, and started every time 
 the door opened. 
 
 "Train for Fitchburg, Rutland, Burling- 
 ton ! " shouted a voice, at last, and the words 
 were drowned in the noise of hurrying feet. 
 
 Gypsy took a seat in the rear car, by the 
 door, which was open, so that she was par- 
 tially concealed from the view of the passen- 
 gers. Just before the train started, a tall, 
 whiskered gentleman walked slowly through 
 the car, scanning the faces on each side of 
 him. 
 
 "You haven't seen a little girl here, dressed 
 iu drab, with black eyes and red checks, havti 
 you?" he asked, stopping just in front of 
 Gypsy.
 
 260 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 Several of the passengers shook theii 
 heads, and one old lady piped out on a very 
 high key, 
 
 " No, sir, I hain't ! " 
 
 The gentleman passed out, and shut the 
 door. Gypsy held her breath. It was her 
 uncle. 
 
 He looked troubled and anxious. Gypsy'a 
 cheeks flushed, a sudden impulse came over 
 bcr to call him back, she started and threw 
 open the window, but the engine-bell rang, 
 the train puffed slowly off, and her uncle dis- 
 appeared in the crowd. 
 
 As she was whirled rapidly along through 
 wharves and shipping and lumber, away from 
 the roar of the city, and out where woods 
 and green fields lined the way, she began, for 
 th? first time, to think what she was doing, 
 And co wonder if she were doing right. Her 
 auger at her aunt, and the utter disappoint- 
 ment and homesickness of her Boston visit,
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 261 
 
 had swept away, for a few moments, all her 
 power of reasoning. To get home, to see 
 her mother, to hide her head on her shoul- 
 der and cry, this was the one thought that 
 had turned itself over and over in her mind, 
 on that quick ride from Beacon Street, and 
 j\ that hour spent in the dark corner of the 
 depot. Here she was, running like a thiel 
 from her uncle's house, without a word of 
 good-by or thanks for his hospitality, with 
 no message to tell him where she had gone 
 but that note, hastily written in the first flush 
 of her hurt and angry feelings. And the 
 hurrying train was whirling her over hill and 
 valley faster and farther. To go back was 
 impossible, go on she must. What had she 
 done ? 
 
 She began now, too, to wonder where sho 
 should spend the nighf;. The train went only 
 as far as Rutland, and it would be late and 
 dark when she reached the town far too
 
 262 GYPSY BREYNTO^T. 
 
 late for a little girl to be travelling alone, an A 
 to spend a night in a strange hotel, in a 
 strange place. What should she do? 
 
 As the afternoon passed, and the twilight 
 fell, and the lamps were lighted, and people 
 hurried out at way-stations to safe and wait 
 ing homes, her loneliness and anxiety in- 
 creased. Just before entering Kutland, a 
 young man, dressed in a dandyish manner, 
 and partially intoxicated, entered the car, and 
 took the empty scat by Gypsy. She did not 
 like his looks, and moved away slightly, turn- 
 ing to look out of the window. 
 
 "No offence, I hope?" said the man, with 
 a foolish smile ; " the car was full." 
 
 Gypsy made no reply. 
 
 "Travelling far?" he said, a moment after. 
 
 "To Kutland, sir," said Gypsy, feeling very 
 uneasy, as she perceived the odor of mm, 
 and wishing he would not talk to her. 
 
 " Friends there ? " said the man again.
 
 tfO PLACE LIKE HOME. 263 
 
 W N- no, sir." said Gypsy, reluctantly ; w l 
 am going to the hotel." 
 
 "Stranger in town? What hotel do you 
 go to ? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Gypsy, hurriedly. 
 The car was just stopping, and she rose and 
 tried to pass him. 
 
 "I will show you the way," he said, stand- 
 ing up, and reeling slightly as he tried to 
 walk. Gypsy, in despair, looked for the con- 
 ductor. He was nowhere to be seen. The 
 crowd passed out, quite careless of the fright- 
 ened child, or regarding her only with a curi- 
 ous stare. 
 
 "It's only a little way," said the man, with 
 an oath. 
 
 " Why, sakes a massy, if this ain't Gypsy 
 Breynton ! " 
 
 Gypsy turned, with a cry of joy, at hearing 
 her name, and fairly sprang into Mrs. Surly'a 
 arms.
 
 264 GYPSY BREYNTO1SL 
 
 " Why, where on airth did you < omo from, 
 Gypsy Brcynton ? " 
 
 "I came from Bostor , and that man is 
 drunk, and, oh, dear ! I'm so glad to see 
 you, and I've got to go to a hotel, and I didn't 
 know what mother would say, and where 
 did you come from ? " said Gypsy, talking 
 very fast. 
 
 "I come from my sister Lucindy's, down 
 to Bellows Falls, and I'm going to Cousin 
 Mary Ann Jacobs to spend the night." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Gypsy, wistfully. 
 
 " I don't sec how a little gal like you ever 
 come to be on a night train alone," said Mrs. 
 Surly, with a keen, curious look at Gypsy'a 
 face ; " but I know your ma'd never let you 
 go to a hotel this time o' night, and Mary 
 Ann she'd be delighted to see you ; so you'd 
 better come along." 
 
 (Jtypsy was so happy and so thankful, sha 
 could fairlj have ki ?cd her, even her, Mra
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 265 
 
 Surly. Cousin Mary Ann received her hos- 
 pitably, and the evening and night passed 
 quickly a\vay. Mrs. Surly was very curious, 
 and somewhat suspicious on the subject of 
 Gypsy's return to Yorkbury, under such 
 peculiar circumstances. Gypsy said that sho 
 left Boston quite suddenly, that they were 
 not expecting her at home, and that she took 
 so late a train for several reasons, but had 
 not thought that it went no further than Rut- 
 laud, till she was fairly started ; which waa 
 true. More than this, Mrs. Surly could not 
 cross-question out of her, and she soon gave 
 up trying. 
 
 Cousin Mary Ann wanted Mrs. Surly 's 
 company another day; so Gypsy took an 
 early train for Yorkbury alone. 
 
 Gypsy never took any trouble very deeply 
 to heart, and the mon>iiig sunlight, and the 
 sight of the dear, familiar mountains, drove 
 away, to a great extent, the repentant and 
 anxious thoughts of the night.
 
 266 GYPSY BRETNTON. 
 
 As the train shrieked into Yorkbuiy, she 
 forgot everything but that she was at home, 
 miles away from B)ston, her mother near, 
 and Tom, and the dear old days of paddling 
 about on rafts, and having no dinnsr-partioa 
 to disgrace herself at, and no aunt to be 
 afraid of. 
 
 It seemed as if every one she knew were 
 at the station. Mr. Surly was there, under 
 strict orders from his wife, to watch for her 
 every train till she came ; and Mr. Fisher 
 was there, just down on an errand from the 
 mountains ; and Mrs. Rowe and Sarah were 
 walking up the street ; and Agnes Gaylord 
 was over at the grocer's, nodding and smiling 
 as Gypsy stepped upon the platform; and 
 there, too, was Mr. Simms, who had been 
 Bomewhere in the cars, and who stepped into 
 the coach just after she did. 
 
 w Why, Miss Gypsy ! why, really ! You 
 home again, my dear? Wiy, your fathei 
 didn't expect you ! "
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 267 
 
 w I kno\v it," said Gypsy. " Are they all 
 well?" 
 
 <! Oh, yes, yes, all well, but to give them 
 such a surprise ! It is so exactly like you, 
 my dear." 
 
 " I don't like Boston," said Gypsy, coloring. 
 " I had a horrid time, and I canie home very 
 suddenly." 
 
 "Don't like Boston? Well, you are a 
 remarkable young lady ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Simms, and relapsed into silence, watching 
 Gypsy's flushed and eager face, as people 
 watch a light coming back into a dark room. 
 
 "We have missed you up at the store, my 
 dear," he said, after a while. 
 
 "Have you? I'm glad. Oh! who's that 
 with Miss Melville, out walking under the 
 elm-trees ? " 
 
 "I guess it's Mr. Hallam." 
 
 M Oh, to be sure," interrupted Gypsy, look- 
 ing very bright, "I see, Mr. Guy Hal-
 
 268 GYPSY BKEYNTON. 
 
 iam. Now I guess I know why she wouldn't 
 teach school ! " 
 
 " They arc to be married in the spring," 
 said Mr. Simms. 
 
 " Just think ! " said Gypsy. " How fun- 
 ny ! Now she'll have to sta}' at home and 
 keep house all day, I think she's real silly, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 Of all the many remarkable things that 
 Miss Gypsy had ever said, Mr. Simms 
 thought this capped the climax. 
 
 N(^w the coach had rattled up the hill, and 
 lumbered round the corner, and there was 
 the old house, looking quiet and pleasant and 
 dear, in the morning sunlight. Gypsy was 
 so excited that she could not sit still, and 
 kept Mr. Simms in a fever of anxiety, for fear 
 she would tumble out of the coach windows. 
 It seemed to her as if she had been gone a 
 year, instead cf just one weak. 
 
 She sprang down the carriage-steps it a
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 269 
 
 bound, and ran into the house. Her mothcf 
 was out in the kitchen helping Patty about 
 the dinner. She heard such a singing and 
 shouting as no one had made in the house 
 since Gypsy went away, and hurried out into 
 the front entry to see what had happened. 
 Tom ran in from the garden, and Winnie slid 
 down on the banisters, and Mr. Breynton 
 was just coming up the yard, and Patty put 
 her head in at the entry door, wiping her 
 hands on her apron, and everybody must bo 
 kissed all round, and for a few minutes there 
 was such a bustle, that Gypsy could hardly 
 hear herself speak. 
 
 " What has brought you home so soon ': " 
 asked her mother, then. " We didn't look 
 for you for a week yet." 
 
 "Oh, I hate Boston!" cried Gypsy, pull- 
 ing off her things. "I didn't like anything 
 but the Museum and Bunker Hill ; and Joy 
 Wore silk dresses, and wouldn't let lue look
 
 270 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 in the shop- windows, 'n I took a poor, little 
 beggar- girl home, and you can't run round 
 any, and Aunt Miranda told me she'd tell 
 you, and I hate it, and she's just as cross 
 as a bear ! " 
 
 " Your aunt cross ! " said her mother, who 
 could make neither beginning nor end of Gyp- 
 sy's excited story. 
 
 "I guess she is," said Gypsy, with an em- 
 phasis. "Oh, I am so glad to get home! 
 Where's the kitty, and how's Peace May- 
 thorue and everybody, and Winnie has a new 
 jacket, hasn't he ? " 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Breynton exchanged glances. 
 They saw that something was wrong ; but 
 wisely considered that that time was not the 
 one for making any inquiries into the matter. 
 Mrs. Breynton thought, also, I hat if Gypsy 
 had been guilty of ill-temper or rudeness, 
 she would confess it herself. She was right ; 
 lor as soon as dinner was over, Gypsy called
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME 271 
 
 her away alone, and told her all the story 
 They were shut up together a Jong time, 
 and when Gypsy came out her eyes were 
 red with crying. 
 
 All that Mrs. Breynton said does not mat- 
 ter here ; but Gypsy is not likely soon to for- 
 get it. A few words spoken, just as the con- 
 versation ended, became golden mottoes that 
 helped her over many rough places in her 
 life. 
 
 "It is all the old trouble, Gypsy, you 
 'didn't think.' A little self-control, a mo- 
 ment's quiet thought, would have saved all 
 this." 
 
 " Oh, I know it ! " sobbed Gypsy. " That's 
 what always ails me. I'm always doing 
 things, and always sorry for them. I mean 
 to do right, and I cannot remember. What 
 shall I do with myself, mother ? " 
 
 "Gypsy," said her mother, very soberly, 
 "this will never do. You can think. And,
 
 272 GYPSY BREYNTON. 
 
 Gypsy, my child, in every one of these little 
 thoughtless words and acts God sees a &in." 
 
 "A sin when you didn't think?" exclaimed 
 Gypsy. 
 
 " You must learn to think, Gypsy ; and He 
 will teach you." 
 
 Her mother kissed her many times, and 
 Gypsy clung to her neck, and was very still. 
 Whatever thoughts she had just then, she 
 never told them to any one. 
 
 The afternoon passed away like a merry 
 dream. Gypsy was so happy that she had 
 had the talk with her mother ; so glad to be 
 kissed and forgiven and loved and helped ; 
 to find every one so pleased to see her back, 
 and home so dear, and the mountains so blue 
 and beautiful, and the sunlight so bright, 
 that she scarcely knew whether she were 
 asleep or awake. She must hunt up the 
 kitten, and feed the chickenu, and take a peep 
 at the cow, and stroke old Billy in his staL 1 T
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 273 
 
 she must see how many sweet peas were left 
 on (he vines, and clirnb out on the shed-roof 
 that had been freshly shingled since she was 
 gone, and run down to the Kleiner Berg, and 
 over to see Sarah Rowe. She must know 
 just what Tom had been doing this intermi- 
 nable week, just how many buttons "Winnie 
 had lost off from his jacket, and what kind 
 of pies Patty had baked for dinner. She 
 must kiss her mother twenty times an hour, 
 and pull her father's whiskers, and ride Win- 
 nie on her shoulder. Best of all, perhaps, it 
 was to run down to Peace Maythorne's, and 
 find the sunlight golden in the quiet room, 
 and the pale face smiling on the pillow ; to 
 hear the gentle voice, when the door opened, 
 say, " Oh, Gypsy 1 " in such a way, as no 
 other voice ever said it ; and then to sit down 
 and lay her head upon the pillow by Peace, 
 and tell her all that had happened. 
 
 w Well," said Peace, smiling, " I think you
 
 274 GYPSY BREYMTON. 
 
 have learned a good deal for one week, ami 
 I guess you will nevei wralcarn it." 
 
 " I guess you'll be very sorry you vreut to 
 Bosting," remarked Winnie, in an oraculai 
 manner, that night, when they were all to- 
 gether in their old places in the sitting-room. 
 "The Meddlesome Quinine Club had a con- 
 cert here last Wednesday, and we had pre- 
 served seats. What do you think of that ? " 
 
 This is a copy of the letter that found its 
 way to Beacon Street a few days after : 
 
 " MY DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT MIRANDA : 
 
 " I am so sorry I don't know what to do. 
 I was so tired sitting still, and going to 
 dinner-parties, and then auutio was dis- 
 pleased about the beggar-girl (I took her 
 home, and her mother was just as glad as she 
 could be, and so poor !) and so I felt angry 
 and homesick, and I know I oughtn't to have 
 gone to such a place without asking; but I
 
 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 275 
 
 Aidn't think; and then I <;ame he me ir. the 
 afternoon train, but I didn't think when I did 
 that either. Mother says that was no excuse, 
 and I know it was very wicked in me to do 
 such a thing. Mrs. Surly met me in the cars 
 at Rutland, and took me to spend the night 
 with her cousin, Mrs. Mary Ann Jacobs ; so 
 I got along safely, and nothing happened to 
 me, but one drunken man that kept talking. 
 
 " Mother says I have done a very rude and 
 unkind thing, to leave you all so, when you 
 had invited me there, and been so good to me. 
 I know it. I had a real nice time when J 
 went to see Bunker Hill and the Museum with 
 uncle ; and, of course, it was my own fault 
 that I didn't like to wear gloves, and choked 
 so at dinner. 
 
 r Mother says you will never want to soe 
 me thero again; and I shouldn't think you 
 \vould. Seems to me I never did such a 
 thing in all my life, and 3 ou haven't any idea
 
 276 GYPSY BREYNTOW. 
 
 how badly I feel about it. But I know that 
 doesn't help it any. 
 
 "I've made up my mind never to do any- 
 thing again till I've thought it all over as 
 many as twelve times. Mother says two or 
 three would do, but I think twelve would be 
 safer 
 
 " I wish you'd let Joy come up here. I'd 
 take her boating and riding, and up to Rip- 
 ton, and down to the swamp, and everything, 
 and try to make up. 
 
 " I don't suppose you will ever care any- 
 thing more about me ; but I wish you'd please 
 to excuse me and forgive me. 
 
 "Your affectionate niece, 
 
 '" GYPSY. 
 
 " P. S. Winnie's cat has the cwnningest 
 little set of kittens you ever saw. They*ri 
 all blind, and they have such funny paws. r
 
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