A few days after, she was sitting alone working on the photograph case.
It was rather pretty work, though not over-clean. She had cut a
well-shaped frame out of pasteboard, with a long, narrow piece bent back
to serve as support. The frame was covered with putty, and into the
putty she fastened her shells. They were of different sizes, shapes, and
colors, and she was laying them on in a pretty pattern of stars and
crescents. She had just stopped to look at her work, her red lips shut
together with the air of a connoisseur, and her head on one side, like a
canary, when Joy came in.

"Just look here!" and she held up before her astonished eyes a handsome
volume of blue and gold--Whittier's poems, and written on the fly-leaf,
in Joy's very best copy-book hand, "For Auntie, with a Merry Christmas,
from Joy."

"Uncle sent to Boston for me, and got it, and he promised on his word
'n' honor, certain true, black and blue, he wouldn't let Auntie know a
single sign of a thing about it. Isn't it splendid?"

"Ye-es," said Gypsy, slowly.

"Well! I don't think you seem to care much."

Gypsy looked at her shell-work, and said nothing. For the second time
that dull, curious pain had crept into her heart. What did it mean? Was
it possible that she was _envious_ of Joy? Was it _possible_?

The hot crimson rushed to Gypsy's cheeks for shame at the thought. But
the thought was there.

She chanced to be in Peace Maythorne's room one day when the bustle of
preparation for the holidays was busiest. Peace hid something under the
counterpane as she came in, flushing a little. Gypsy sat down in her
favorite place on the bed, just where she could see the cripple's great
quiet eyes--she always liked to watch Peace Maythorne's eyes--and in
doing so disturbed the bedclothes. A piece of work fell out: plain, fine
sewing, in which the needle lay with a stitch partially taken.

"Peace Maythorne!" said Gypsy, "you've been doing it again!"

"A little, just to help aunt, you know. A little doesn't hurt me,
Gypsy."

"Doesn't hurt you? Peace, you know better. You know you never sew a
stitch but you lie awake half the night after it with the pain."

Peace did not contradict her. She could not.

"Help your aunt!" Gypsy went on vehemently; "she oughtn't to let you
touch it. She hasn't any more feeling than a stone wall, nor half as
much, I say!"

"Hush, Gypsy! Don't say that. Indeed I'd rather have the pain, and help
her a little, once in a w