you take a body's head off. Well, if she _should_ preach, I
shall come right home."

They had come now to the village, where were the stores and the
post-office, the bank, and some handsome dwelling-houses. Also the one
paved sidewalk of Yorkbury, whereon the young people did their
promenading after school in the afternoon. Joy always fancied coming
here, gay in her white chenille and white ribbons, and dainty parasol
lined with white silk. There is nothing so showy as showy mourning, and
Joy made the most of it.

"Why, where are you going?" she exclaimed at last. Gypsy had turned away
from the fashionable street, and the handsome houses, and the paved
sidewalk.

"To Peace Maythorne's."

"_This_ way?"

"This way."

The street into which Gypsy had turned was narrow and not over clean;
the houses unpainted and low. As they walked on it grew narrower and
dirtier, and the houses became tenement houses only.

"Do, for pity's sake, hurry and get out of here," said Joy, daintily
holding up her dress. Gypsy walked on and said nothing. Red-faced women
in ragged dresses began to cluster on the steps; muddy-faced children
screamed and quarreled in the road. At the door of a large tenement
building, somewhat neater than the rest, but miserable enough, Gypsy
stopped.

"What are you stopping for?" said Joy.

"This is where she lives."

_"Here?"_

"I just guess she does," put in a voice from behind; it was Winnie, who
had followed them on tiptoe, unknown to them, all the way. "She's got a
funny quirk in her back, 'n' she lies down pretty much. That's her room
up there to the top of the house. It's a real nice place, I tell _you_.
They have onions mos' every day. Besides, I saw a little boy here one
time when I was comin' 'long with mother, 'n' he was smokin' some
tobaccer. He said he'd give it to me for two napples, and mother just
wouldn't let me."

"_Here_--a cripple!" exclaimed Joy.

"Here, and a cripple," said Gypsy, in a queer tone, looking very
straight at Joy.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" broke out Joy, "playing such a
trick on me. Do you suppose _I'm_ going into such a place as this, to
see an old beggar--a hunch-backed beggar?"

Gypsy turned perfectly white. When she was very angry, too angry to
speak, she always turned white. It was some seconds before she could
find her voice.

"_A hunch-backed beggar!_ Peace? How _dare_ you say such things of Peace
Maythorne? Joy Breynton, I'll never for