comfort, and the sweet, sad
lessons. It told, besides, much of what Peace and Gypsy were to each
other, that only they two should ever exactly understand. It was a tone
that always softened Gypsy, in her gayest frolics, in her wildest moods.
For the first time since she had known Peace, it failed to soften her
now.

She began in her impetuous way, her face angry and flushed, her voice
trembling yet:--

"I can't tell you what it is, and that's the thing of it! It's about
that horrid old Joy."

"Gypsy!"

"I can't help it--I hate her!"

"Gypsy."

Gypsy's eyes fell at the gentle word.

"Well, I felt just as if I did, down there on the steps, anyway. You
don't know what Joy said. It's something about you, and that's what
makes me so mad. If she ever says it again!"

"About me?" interrupted Peace.

"Yes," said Gypsy, with great, flashing eyes. "I wouldn't tell it to you
for all the world; it's so bad as that, Peace. How she _dared_ to call
you a beg----"

Gypsy stopped short. But she had let the cat out of the bag. Peace
smiled again.

"A beggar! Well, it doesn't hurt me any, does it? Joy has never seen me,
doesn't know me, you must remember, Gypsy. Besides, nobody else thinks
as much of me as you do."

"I didn't mean to say that; I'm always saying the wrong thing! Anyway,
that isn't all of it, and I did think I should strike her when she said
it. I can't bear Joy. You don't know what she is, Peace. She grows worse
and worse. She does things I wouldn't do for anything, and I wish she'd
never come here!"

"Is Joy _always_ wrong?" asked Peace, gently. Peace rarely gave to any
one as much of a reproof as that. Gypsy felt it.

"No," said she, honestly, "she isn't. I'm real horrid and wicked, and do
ugly things. But I can't help it; Joy makes me--she acts so."

"I know what's the matter with you and Joy, I guess," said Peace.

"The matter? Well, I don't; I wish I did. We're always fight--fighting,
day in and day out, and I'm tired to death of it. I'm just crazy for the
time for Joy to go home, and I'm dreadfully unhappy having her round,
now I am, Peace."

Gypsy drew down her merry, red lips, and looked very serious. To tell
the truth, however, do the best she would, she could not look altogether
as if her heart were breaking from the amount of "unhappiness" that fell
to her lot. A little smile quivered around the lips of Peace.

"Well," said Gypsy, laughing in spite of herself, "I am. I never _can_
make