Gypsys Cousin Joy | Page 7

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."
CHAPTER III
ONE EVENING

So it was settled, and Joy came. There was no especial day appointed
for the journey. Her father was to come up with her as soon as he had
arranged his affairs so that he could do so, and then to go directly back
to Boston and sail at once.
Gypsy found plenty to do, in getting ready for her cousin. This having a
roommate for the first time in her life was by no means an unimportant
event to her. Her room had always been her own especial private
property. Here in a quiet nook on the broad window-sill she had curled
herself up for hours with her new story-books; here she had locked
herself in to learn her lessons, and keep her doll's dressmaking out of
Winnie's way; here she had gone away alone to have all her "good
cries;" here she sometimes spent a part of her Sabbath evenings with
her most earnest and sober thoughts.
Here was the mantel-shelf, covered with her little knick-knacks that no
one was ever allowed to touch but herself--pictures framed in pine
cones, boxes of shell-work, baskets of wafer-work, cologne-bottles,
watchcases, ivy-shoots and minerals, on which the dust accumulated at
its own sweet will, and the characteristic variety and arrangement
whereof none ever disputed with her. What if Joy should bring a
trunkful of ornaments?
There in the wardrobe were her treasures covering six shelves--her
kites and balls of twine, fishlines and doll's bonnets, scraps of gay silk
and jackknives, old compositions and portfolios, colored paper and
dried moss, pieces of chalk and horse-chestnuts, broken jewelry and
marbles. It was a curious collection. One would suppose it to be a sort
of co-partnership between the property of a boy and girl, in which the
boy decidedly predominated.
[Illustration]
Into this wardrobe Gypsy looked regretfully. Three of those
shelves--those precious shelves--must be Joy's now. And what should
be done with the things?
Then there were the bureau drawers. What sorcerer's charms, to say

nothing of the somewhat unwilling fingers of a not very enthusiastic
little girl, could cram the contents of four (and those so full that they
were overflowing through the cracks) into two?
Moreover, as any one acquainted with certain chapters in Gypsy's past
history will remember, her premises were not always celebrated for the
utmost tidiness. And here was Joy, used to her elegant carpets and
marble-covered bureaus, and gas-fixtures and Cochituate, with servants
to pick 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