hey were
faults of quick temper and carelessness. Of deliberate selfishness it
had scarcely ever occurred to her that anybody could think her capable.
So she echoed--

"Selfish!" in simple surprise.

"Just look at it," said her mother, gently; "Joy was your visitor, a
stranger, feeling awkward and unhappy, most probably, with the girls
whom you knew so well, and not knowing anything about the matters which
you talked over. You might, might you not, have by a little effort made
her soon feel at home and happy? Instead of that, you went off with the
girls, and let her fall behind, with nobody but Winnie to talk to."

Gypsy's face turned to a sudden crimson.

"Then, a nutting party was a new thing to Joy, and with the care of
Winnie and all, it is no wonder she did not find it very pleasant, and
she had never climbed a tree in her life. This was her first Saturday
afternoon in Yorkbury, and she was, no doubt, feeling lonely and
homesick, and it made her none the happier to be laughed at for not
doing something she had not the slightest idea how to do. Was it quite
generous to let her start off alone, over a strange road, with the care
of a crying----"

"And muddy," put in Gypsy, with twinkling eyes, "from head to foot,
black as a shoe."

"And muddy child?" finished Mrs. Breynton, smiling in spite of herself.

"But Joy wanted to take him, and I told her so. It was her own bargain."

[Illustration]

"I know that. But we are not speaking of bargains, Gypsy; we are
speaking of what is kind and generous. Now, how does it strike you?"

"It strikes me," said Gypsy, in her honest way, after a moment's
pause--"it strikes me that I'm a horrid selfish old thing, and I've
lived twelve years and just found it out; there now!"

Just as Gypsy was going to bed she turned around with the lamp in her
hand, her great eyes dreaming away in the brownest of brown studies.

"Mother, is it selfish to have upper drawers, and front sides, and
things?"

"What are you talking about, Gypsy?"

"Why, don't my upper drawers, and the front side of the bed, and all
that, belong to me, and must I give them up to Joy?"

"It is not necessary," said her mother, laughing. But Gypsy fancied
there was a slight emphasis on the last word.

Joy was sound asleep, and dreaming that Winnie was a rattlesnake and
Gypsy a prairie-dog, when somebody gave her a little pinch and woke her
up.

"Oh--why--what's the matter?" said Joy.

"Look here, you mi