bed. It was Joy. She was sobbing as if her
heart would break, and such sobs--it would have made you cry to hear
them, Gypsy. She didn't hear me come in, and she began to talk to the
dead face as if it could hear her. Do you want to know what she said?"

Gypsy was looking very hard the other way. She nodded, but did not
speak, gulping down something in her throat.

"This was what she said--softly, in Joy's frightened way, you know:
'You're all I had anyway,' said she. 'All the other girls have got
mothers, and now I won't ever have any, any more. I did used to bother
you and be cross about my practising, and not do as you told me, and I
wish I hadn't, and--

"Oh--hum, look here--mother," interrupted Gypsy, jumping up and
winking very fast, "isn't there a train up from Boston early Monday
morning? She might come in that, you know."

Mrs. Breynton smiled.

"Then she may come, may she?"

"I rather think she may," said Gypsy, with an emphasis. "I'll write her
a letter and tell her so."

"That will be a good plan, Gypsy. But you are quite sure? I don't want
you to decide this matter in too much of a hurry."

"She'll sleep in the front room, of course?" suggested Gypsy.

"No; if she comes, she must sleep with you. With our family and only one
servant, I could hardly keep up the extra work that would cause for six
months or a year."

"Six months or a year! In my room!"

Gypsy walked back and forth across the room two or three times, her
merry forehead all wrinkled into a knot.

"Well," at last, "I've said it, and I'll stick to it, and I'll try to
make her have a good time, anyway."

"Come here, Gypsy."

Gypsy came, and one of those rare, soft kisses--very different from the
ordinary, everyday kisses--that her mother gave her when she hadn't
just the words to say how pleased she was, fell on her forehead, and
smoothed out the knot before you could say "Jack Robinson."

That very afternoon Gypsy wrote her note to Joy:

"Dear Joy:

"I'm real sorry your mother died. You'd better come right up here
next week, and we'll go chestnutting over by Mr. Jonathan Jones's. I
tell you it's splendid climbing up. If you're very careful, you
needn't tear your dress _very_ badly. Then there's the raft, and you
might play baseball, too. I'll teach you.

"You see if you don't have a nice time. I can't think of anything
more to say.

"Your affectionate cousin,

"Gypsy."

CHAP