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

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

"No, I won't," said Sarah. "What do you have to sew for, 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 seem to get time; I'm sure I don't know why. This morning I had my history topics to write."

"Why, I wrote mine yesterday!"

"I meant to, but I forgot; Miss Melville said I musn't put it off 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 wouldn'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 funny! 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 that are 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 Melancthon, and Gypsy's wearing a wig and spectacles, and reading Cruden's "Concordance."

"Yes," nodded Gypsy, "reform. I never knew anybody need it as much as I. 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—sometimes. Then there's my mending. I came out here so's to be quiet and keep at it. The poor dear woman is so afraid I won't learn 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 we 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 Sarah, finding it was for her own 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 carefully in the little green reticule.

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

"Now let's go," said Sarah.

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

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

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

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

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

Gypsy stood aghast. The water gurgled over the fallen statue, whose pretty, upraised hands were snapped at the wrist, and the 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 Rowe! 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, decidedly. "He'd ask if anybody knew,—I wouldn't be so mean, even if I knew he couldn't find out. I am going to tell him this minute."

Gypsy started off, with her cheeks still very red, up the garden paths and down the road, and Sarah followed slowly. Gypsy's sense 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 eyes, so the two girls separated for the afternoon.

It was about a mile to Mr. Breynton'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. Simms, the clerk, looked up over his spectacles in mild astonishment, as Gypsy entered the store flushed, and panting, and pretty. To Mr. Simms, who had no children of his own, and only a deaf wife and a lame dog at home for company, Gypsy was always pretty, always "such a wonderful development for a young person," and always just about right in whatever she did.

"Why, good afternoon, Miss Gypsy," said 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; "where'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, confidentially, "I've done the most dreadful thing!"

"Dear me! I don't see how that is possible," 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?"

"I jumped on it."

"Jumped on it!"

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

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

"But he will," said Gypsy, who regarded Mr. Simm's compliments only as 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!" said Mr. Simms, as he bowed himself away in his polite, old-fashioned way, and disappeared up the stairway that led to the printing-rooms. It seemed to Gypsy, waiting 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 Saturday 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 windows 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 nothing.

"I know you think I'm always up to mischief, 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 learn better where they tie you down to a great board," said Gypsy, talking very fast, and quite forgetting her punctuation.

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

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

"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 matter. I wish I could buy you another. 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. Breynton, looking troubled and puzzled. "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 mother 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 in 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 grown-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 much respect for her father to say this. So she hung her head, feeling very humble and sorry, and wondering if Mr. Simms couldn't plaster the nymph together somehow, he was always so ready to do things for her.

"Well," said her father, after a moment's thought, in which he had been struggling with a sense of disappointment at the destruction 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, anyway—very glad. You are 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 loving Gypsy. What do you think?



CHAPTER VII

JUST LIKE GYPSY

One afternoon Gypsy was coming home 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 butterflies 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 this world was a very great world, and very beautiful,—it seemed so alive and happy, from the arch of the blazing sky down to the blossoms 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! 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 somewhere, and shout and jump and sing.

As she walked slowly along past the stores and the crowded tenement-houses, swinging her little letter-basket on her arm, and dreaming away with her great brown eyes, as such young eyes will always dream upon a summer'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 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 decidedly the worse for wear, were playing on them.

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

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

"Who is that groaning so?" persisted Gypsy, repressing a strong desire to box their ears. The children crawled a little further up-stairs, and peered at her from between 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.

"Who is that groaning?" repeated Gypsy.

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

"But what does she groan for?" insisted Gypsy, her curiosity nowise diminished to see a person who could be "always groanin'clock," 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, carelessly; "she's broke a bone,—though she do make a terrible fuss over it, and very onobligin'clock it is to the neighbors as has the lookin'clock after of her."

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

"Good luck to you!" said the woman, with a laugh Gypsy did not like very much. It 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 came at regular intervals like long breaths, she went up a second flight of stairs, more narrow and more dark than the first, and turned into a little low room, the door of which stood open.

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

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

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

Gypsy accepted the somewhat dubious invitation. 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 all 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 arternoon," said Grandmother Littlejohn, 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."

"Matter?" said the old woman sharply, "I fell down stairs and broke my ankle, that's the matter, an'clock I wonder the whole town hain't heerd me holler,—I can't sleep day nor night with the pain, an'clock 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 suffering, that it made Gypsy turn pale to hear her.

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

"Laws yes," said the old woman. "Had a doctor! I guess I have, a young fellar 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'clock he with his whiskers only half growed, an'clock puttin'clock of my foot into a wooden box, an'clock murderin'clock of me—I gave him a piece of my mind, and he hain't come nigh me since, and I won't have him agin noways."

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

"Splinters?" cried the old woman; "I tell ye I fell down stairs! I didn't get no splinters in."

Gypsy concluded to suppress her surgical information.

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

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

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

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

"No dinner," cried Gypsy. "Why, how sorry 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. Littlejohn, with a sigh; "an'clock I hope you'll be rewarded for botherin'clock yourself about a poor old woman like me. Does 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 as not; I'll bring you down a pound or so, and I have five dollars at home that you might have. What would you like to have me get for you?"

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Littlejohn; "what a angel of mercy to the poor 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 groaning 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 hurricane, 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!"

"Oh, mother, such an old woman—such a 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 crookedest stairs, and she broke her ankle, and the neighbors won't give her anything to eat, unless she goes to the poor-house and starves, and she hasn't had any dinner, and——"

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

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

Mrs. Breynton laid down her work, and laughed.

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

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

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

"Stop a minute," interrupted Mrs. Breynton, gently. "Sit down 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."

Gypsy, 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, she managed to tell her story in as connected and rational manner, and with as few comments and exclamations of her own, as Gypsy was capable of getting along with, in any narration.

"Very well," said her mother, when it was finished; "I begin to understand things better. 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'm," 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."

"Complain!" said Gypsy, indignantly.

"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."

"But it wouldn't follow that I should give Mrs. Littlejohn the same," said Mrs. Breynton, 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 promised 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 salmon 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 Gypsy, only half convinced.

"Very well, supposing I were to let you give it all away to Mrs. Littlejohn, even if she were the most worthy and needy person that 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 contribution box, but Mrs. Littlejohn has eaten up what you might have given. You want to do something for the poor freedmen, who are coming into our armies; you cannot do it, for you have nothing to give."

"Well," said Gypsy, with a ludicrous expression 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 tell you, Gypsy, how pleased I am that you were so quick to feel sorry for the old woman, and so ready to be generous with your own money and help. I would 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 those little soft kisses on the forehead, that Gypsy liked so much. "I will go down and see the old woman after supper," she said, then.

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

"We can't do things in too much of a hurry; not even our charities," said Mrs. Breynton, smiling. "I have some work which I cannot leave now, and I have little doubt the woman had 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. Littlejohn.

It was nearly dark when Mrs. Breynton came up from the village, with her pleasant smile, and her little basket that half Yorkbury 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 something of a sufferer," said Mrs. Breynton. Gypsy's face fell, and they walked up to the house in silence.

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

"Oh, yes. She needs help. She can't be moved to the poor-house now, and, besides, is likely to get well before long, if she is properly taken 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. Rowe takes her the next day."

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

"If you want to."

Gypsy went to bed as happy as a queen.

The next morning she rose early, to be sure to be in time to take Mrs. Littlejohn's breakfast; and was disappointed enough, when her 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 wisdom, on certain other little occasions, she submitted with a good grace.

She carried Mrs. Littlejohn 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 perceptibly.

That evening Mr. and Mrs. Breynton were out to tea, and Tom was off fishing. Mrs. Breynton left Mrs. Littlejohn's supper in a basket on the shelf, and told Gypsy where it was. Gypsy had been having a great frolic in the fresh hay with Sarah Rowe, and came in late. No one but Winnie was there. She ate 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 eleven o'clock, some one knocked at Mrs. Breynton's door, and woke her up.

"Who is it?" she called.

"Oh, mother Breynton!" said a doleful voice; "what do you suppose I've done now?"

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

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

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

"Why, Gypsy!"

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

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

"Just like Gypsy, for all the world!" said Tom, the next morning. "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!"



CHAPTER VIII

PEACE MAYTHORNE

"After you have seen Mrs. Littlejohn, and explained why she went supperless last night," said Mrs. Breynton, "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 Maythorne'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 Gypsy.

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Oh, yes; many times."

Gypsy started off, with the Magazine under her arm, wondering if 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 the dark stairs to Mrs. Littlejohn's room. She had begged of her mother a tiny pailful of green peas, with which she hoped to pacify the old woman, but she was somewhat in dread of hearing her talk, and ashamed to confess her own neglect.

Mrs. Littlejohn was eating the very nice breakfast which Mrs. Rowe 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. Littlejohn, 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 bein'clock forgot. Little gals that has everything they want, and five dollars besides, and promises me salmon and such, couldn't be expected to remember the sufferin'clock and afflicted,—of course not."

It was not an 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 explanation 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 in the cupboard."

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

"Can I do anything for you?"

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

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

"Good mornin'clock," 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 shrewish 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 upon the second story.

It was closed, and Gypsy knocked.

"Come in," said a quiet voice. Gypsy went in, wondering why Peace Maythorne did not get up and open the door, and if she did not know it was more polite. She 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 lingered longest, on a low bed drawn up between 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All the time!—oh, I am so sorry!" said Gypsy, drawing a long breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I forgot!" said Gypsy, abruptly, "mother said I was to ask if 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 lie awake very often?"

Peace answered in the two quiet words that 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 flutter 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 young—except the children. I tell them stories sometimes."

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

"I rather think I shall."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Down stairs?"

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

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

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

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

"Oh, no."

Gypsy gasped a little, as if she were suffocating.

"And your aunt,—is she kind to you?"

"Oh, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whom?"

"God."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace smiled, and looked incredulous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A while after she spoke up, suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Breynton stepped up to her.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER IX

CAMPING OUT

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

Did you ever "camp out"?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only they can't camp out."

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

"Indeed!"

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

Tom smiled a very superior smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But Sarah might."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I declare!" said Mr. Guy Hallam.

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

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

"Matter enough," said Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gypsy sat upright in bed, and listened.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Fisher's little black dog!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To be sure, you can."

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

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

Tom whistled.

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

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

"Isn't it beau—tiful!" cried Sarah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hush—sh! I see one."

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

"Oh, dear me!" said Sarah.

Tom came up, undecided whether to laugh or scold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no answer.

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

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

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

"They haven't come!" exclaimed Sarah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hush! Let's listen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER X

THE END OF THE WEEK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, my little Gypsy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was quiet, and very pale,

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

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

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

"I have told you a great many times that it is never safe for you to touch my gun," said Tom, gravely. He felt that Gypsy's carelessness might have brought about too terrible consequences, both to herself and to him, to be passed by lightly; and he had an idea that, as long as her mother was not there to tell her so, he must.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"O—oh, it's gone right over my feet!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Well—I—suppose it would be a—little—dryer," said Gypsy, slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XI

GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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