drew had gone, Mrs. Breynton came out of the parlor with a
very grave face, a purple-bordered handkerchief in her hand; it was all
spotted with ink, and the initials J. M. B. were embroidered on it.

"Joy."

Joy came out of the corner slowly.

"Come here a minute."

Joy went and the door was shut. Just what happened that next half hour
Gypsy never knew. Joy came upstairs at the end of it, red-eyed and
crying, and gentle.

Gypsy was standing by the window.

"Gypsy."

"Well."

"I love auntie dearly, now I guess I do."

"Of course," said Gypsy; "everybody does."

"I hadn't the least idea it was so wicked--not the least _idea_. Mother
used to----"

But Joy broke off suddenly, with quivering, crimson lips.

What that mother used to do Gypsy never asked; Joy never told
her--either then, or at any other time.

CHAPTER VII

PEACE MAYTHORNE'S ROOM

"Tis, too."

"It isn't, either."

"I know just as well as you."

"No you don't any such a thing. You've lived up here in this old country
place all your life, and you don't know any more about the fashions than
Mrs. Surly."

"But I know it's perfectly ridiculous to rig up in white chenille and
silver pins, when anybody's in such deep mourning as you. _I_ wouldn't
do it for anything."

"I'll take care of myself, if you please, miss."

"And _I_ know another thing, too."

"You do? A whole thing?"

"Yes, I do. I know you're just as proud as you can be, and I've heard
more'n one person say so. All the girls think you're dreadfully stuck up
about your dresses and things--so there!"

"I don't care what the girls think, or you either. I guess I'll be glad
when father comes home and I get out of this house!"

Joy fastened the gaudy silver pins with a jerk into the heavy white
chenille that she was tying about her throat and hair, turned herself
about before the glass with a last complacent look, and walked, in her
deliberate, cool, provoking way, from the room. Gypsy got up,
and--slammed the door on her.

Very dignified proceedings, certainly, for girls twelve and thirteen
years old. An unspeakably important matter to quarrel about--a piece of
white chenille! Angry people, be it remembered, are not given to
over-much dignity, and how many quarrels are of the slightest
importance?

Yet the things these two girls found to dispute, and get angry, and get
miserable, and make the whole family miserable over, were so
ridiculously petty that I hardly ex