ng
money; Gypsy's stock was small. When Joy wanted to make a present, she
had only to ask for a few extra dollars, and she had them. Gypsy always
felt as if a present given in that way were no present; unless a thing
cost her some self-denial, or some labor, she reasoned, it had nothing
to do with her. If given directly out of her father's pocket, it was his
gift, not hers.

But then, how much handsomer Joy's things would be.

Thus Gypsy was thinking in her secret heart, over and over. How could
she help it? And Joy, perhaps--possibly--Joy was thinking the same
thing, with a spice of pleasure in the thought.

It was about her mother that Gypsy was chiefly troubled. Tom had
condescendingly informed her, about six months ago, that he'd just as
lief she would make him a watch-case if she wanted to very much. Girls
always would jump at the chance to get up any such nonsense. Be sure she
did it up in style, with gold and silver tape, and some of your blue
alpaca. (Tom's conceptions of the feminine race, their apparel,
occupations and implements, were bounded by tape and alpaca.) So Tom was
provided for; the watch-case was nearly made, and bade fair to be quite
as pretty as anything Joy could buy. Winnie was easily suited, and her
father would be as contented with a shaving-case as with a velvet
dressing-gown; indeed he'd hardly know the difference. Joy should have a
pretty white velvet hair-ribbon. But what for mother? She lay awake a
whole half hour one night, perplexing herself over the question, and at
last decided rather falteringly on a photograph frame of shell-work.
Gypsy's shell-work was always pretty, and her mother had a peculiar
fancy for it.

"_I_ shall give her Whittier's poems," said Joy, in--perhaps
unconsciously, perhaps not--a rather triumphant tone. "I heard her say
the other day she wanted them ever so much. I'm going to get the best
copy I can find, with gold edges. If uncle hasn't a nice one in his
store, I'll send to Boston. Mr. Ticknor'll pick me out the best one he
has, I know, 'cause he knows father real well, and we buy lots of things
there."

Gypsy said nothing. She was rather abashed to hear Joy talk in such
familiar terms of Mr. Ticknor. She was more uneasy that Joy should give
so handsome a present. She sat looking at her silently, and while she
looked, a curious, dull, sickening pain crept into her heart. It
frightened her, and she ran away downstairs to get rid of it.

[Illustration]