Gypsys Cousin Joy | Page 4

a letter.
Gypsy ran out to meet him, and put out her hand, in a great hurry to
read it.
"I'll read it to you," said Tom; "it's to me. Come into the parlor."
They went in, and Tom read:
"My Dear Son:
"I write in great haste, just to let you know that your Aunt Miranda is
gone. She died last night at nine o'clock, in great distress. I was with
her at the last. I am glad I came--very; it seems to have been a comfort
to her; she was so lonely and deserted. The funeral is day after
to-morrow, and we shall stay of course. We hope to be home on
Monday. There has been no time yet to make any plans; I can't tell
what the family will do. Poor Joy cannot bear to be left alone a minute.
She follows me round like a frightened child. The tears come into my
eyes every time I look at her, for the thoughts of three dear, distant
faces that might be left just so, but for God's mercy to them and to me.
She is just about Gypsy's age and height, you know. The disease proved

not to be contagious, so you need feel no anxiety. A kiss to both the
children. Your father sends much love. We shall be glad to get home
and see you again.
"Very lovingly,
"Mother."
Inside the note was a slip for Gypsy, with this written on it:
"I must stop to tell you, Gypsy, of a little thing your aunt said the day
before she died. She had been speaking of Joy in her weak, troubled
way--of some points wherein she hoped she would be a different
woman from her mother, and had then lain still a while, her eyes closed,
something--as you used to say when you were a little girl--very sorry
about her mouth, when suddenly she turned and said, 'I wish I'd made
Gypsy's visit here a little pleasanter. Tell her she must think as well as
she can of her auntie, for Joy's sake, now.'"
Gypsy folded up the paper, and sat silent a moment, thinking her own
thoughts, as Tom saw, and not wishing to be spoken to.
Those of you who have read "Gypsy Breynton" will understand what
these thoughts might be. Those who have not, need only know that
Gypsy's aunt had been rather a gay, careless lady, well dressed and
jeweled, and fond enough of dresses and jewels; and that in a certain
visit Gypsy made her not long ago, she had been far from thoughtful of
her country niece's comfort.
And this was how it had ended. Poor Aunt Miranda!
"Well," said Gypsy, at last, with something dim in her eyes, "I dare say
I was green and awkward, and it was half my fault. I never could
understand how people could just turn round when anybody dies, and
say they were good and perfect, when it wasn't any such a thing, and I
can't say I think she was, for it would be a lie. But I won't say anything
more against her. Poor Joy, poor Joy! Not to have any mother, Tom,
just think! Oh, just think!"

CHAPTER II
SHE SHALL COME?
Supper was ready. It had been ready now for ten minutes. The cool,
white cloth, bright glass, glittering silver, and delicate china painted
with a primrose and an ivy-leaf--the best china, and very extravagant in
Gypsy, of course, but she thought the occasion deserved it--were all
laid in their places upon the table. The tea was steeped to precisely the
right point; the rich, mellow flavor had just escaped the clover taste on
one side, and the bitterness of too much boiling on the other; the
delicately sugared apples were floating in their amber juices in the
round glass preserve-dish, the smoked halibut was done to the most
delightful brown crispness, the puffy, golden drop-cakes were smoking
from the oven, and Patty was growling as nobody but Patty could growl,
for fear they would "slump down intirely an' be gittin' as heavy as
lead," before they could be eaten.
There was a bright fire in the dining-room grate; the golden light was
dancing a jig all over the walls, hiding behind the curtains, coquetting
with the silver, and touching the primroses on the plates to a perfect
sunbeam; for father and mother were coming. Tom and Gypsy and
Winnie were all three running to the windows and the door every two
minutes and dressed in their very "Sunday-go-to-meeting best;" for
father and mother were coming. Tom had laughed well at this plan of
dressing up--Gypsy's notion, of course, and ridiculous enough, said
Tom; fit for babies like Winnie, and girls. (I wish I could give you in
print the