ick up her things for her ever since she was a baby! How shocked she
would be at the dust, and the ubiquitous slippers, and the slips and
shreds on the carpet; and how should she have the least idea what it was
to have to do things yourself?

However, Gypsy put a brave face on it, and emptied the bureau drawers,
and squeezed away the treasures into three shelves, and did her best to
make the room look pleasant and inviting to the little stranger. In
fact, before she was through with the work she became really very much
interested in it. She had put a clean white quilt upon the bed, and
looped up the curtain with a handsome crimson ribbon, taken from the
stock in the wardrobe. She had swept and dusted every corner and
crevice; she had displayed all her ornaments to the best advantage, and
put fresh cologne in the bottles. She had even brought from some
sanctum, where it was folded away in the dark, a very choice silk flag
about four inches long, that she had made when the war began, and was
keeping very tenderly to wear when Richmond was taken, and pinned it up
over her looking-glass.

On the table, too, stood her Parian vase filled with golden and
blood-red maple-leaves, and the flaming berries of the burning-bush.
Very prettily the room looked, when everything was finished, and Gypsy
was quite proud of it.

Joy came Thursday night. They were all in the parlor when the coach
stopped, and Gypsy ran out to meet her.

A pale, sickly, tired-looking child, draped from head to foot in black,
came up the steps clinging to her father's hand, and fretting over
something or other about the baggage.

Gypsy was springing forward to meet her, but stopped short. The last
time she had seen Joy, she was in gay Stuart-plaid silk and corals. She
had forgotten all about the mourning. How thin and tall it made Joy
look!

Gypsy remembered herself in a minute and threw her arms warmly around
Joy's neck. But Joy did not return the embrace, and gave her only one
cold kiss. She had inferred from Gypsy's momentary hesitation that she
was not glad to see her.

Gypsy, on her part, thought Joy was proud and disagreeable. Thus the two
girls misunderstood each other at the very beginning.

"I'm real glad to see you," said Gypsy.

"I thought we never should get here!" said Joy, petulantly. "The cars
were so dusty, and your coach jolts terribly. I shouldn't think the town
would use such an old thing."

Gypsy's face fell, and her welcome gr