aunt's sickness,
the care and anxiety and trouble. His business also requires some member
of the firm to go to France this fall, and he has almost decided to go.
The only thing that makes him hesitate is Joy."

"I see what you mean now, mother--I see it in your eyes. You want Joy
to come here." Gypsy spoke in a slow, uncomfortable way, as if she were
trying very hard not to believe her own words.

"Yes," said Mrs. Breynton, "that is it."

Gypsy's bright face fell. "Well?" she said, at last.

"I told your uncle," said her mother, "that I could not decide on the
spot, but would let him know next week. The question of Joy's coming
here will affect you more than any member of the family, and I thought
it only fair to you that we should talk it over frankly before it is
settled."

Gypsy had a vague notion that all mothers would not have been so
thoughtful, but she said nothing.

"I do not wish," proceeded Mrs. Breynton, "to make any arrangement in
which you cannot be happy; but I have great faith in your kind heart,
Gypsy."

"I don't like Joy," said Gypsy, bluntly.

"I know that, and I am sorry it is so," said her mother. "I understand
just what Joy is. But it is not all her fault. She has not been trained
just as you have, Gypsy. She was never taught and helped to be a
generous gentle child, as you have been taught and helped. Your uncle
and aunt felt differently about these things; but it is no matter about
that now--you will understand it better when you are older. It is
enough for you to know that Joy has great excuse for her faults. Even if
they were twice as great as they are, one wouldn't think much about them
now; the poor child is in great trouble, lonely and frightened and
motherless. Think, if God took away _your_ mother, Gypsy."

"But Joy didn't care much about her mother," said honest Gypsy. "She
used to scold her, Joy told me so herself. Besides, I heard her, ever so
many times."

"Peace be with the dead, Gypsy; let all that go. She was all the mother
Joy had, and if you had seen what I saw a night or two before I came
away, you wouldn't say she didn't love her."

"What was it?" asked Gypsy.

"Your auntie was lying all alone, upstairs. I went in softly, to do one
or two little things about the room, thinking no one was there.

"One faint gaslight was burning, and in the dimness I saw that the sheet
was turned down from the face, and a poor little quivering figure was
crouched beside it on the