Gypsys Cousin Joy | Page 6

talk about."
"Why, I don't see what I have to do with it!" said Gypsy, astonished.
"Her father thinks of going abroad, and so there would be no one to leave her with. He finds himself quite worn out by your aunt's sickness, the care and anxiety and trouble. His business also requires some member of the firm to go to France this fall, and he has almost decided to go. The only thing that makes him hesitate is Joy."
"I see what you mean now, mother--I see it in your eyes. You want Joy to come here." Gypsy spoke in a slow, uncomfortable way, as if she were trying very hard not to believe her own words.
"Yes," said Mrs. Breynton, "that is it."
Gypsy's bright face fell. "Well?" she said, at last.
"I told your uncle," said her mother, "that I could not decide on the spot, but would let him know next week. The question of Joy's coming here will affect you more than any member of the family, and I thought it only fair to you that we should talk it over frankly before it is settled."
Gypsy had a vague notion that all mothers would not have been so thoughtful, but she said nothing.
"I do not wish," proceeded Mrs. Breynton, "to make any arrangement in which you cannot be happy; but I have great faith in your kind heart, Gypsy."
"I don't like Joy," said Gypsy, bluntly.
"I know that, and I am sorry it is so," said her mother. "I understand just what Joy is. But it is not all her fault. She has not been trained just as you have, Gypsy. She was never taught and helped to be a generous gentle child, as you have been taught and helped. Your uncle and aunt felt differently about these things; but it is no matter about that now--you will understand it better when you are older. It is enough for you to know that Joy has great excuse for her faults. Even if they were twice as great as they are, one wouldn't think much about them now; the poor child is in great trouble, lonely and frightened and motherless. Think, if God took away your mother, Gypsy."
"But Joy didn't care much about her mother," said honest Gypsy. "She used to scold her, Joy told me so herself. Besides, I heard her, ever so many times."
"Peace be with the dead, Gypsy; let all that go. She was all the mother Joy had, and if you had seen what I saw a night or two before I came away, you wouldn't say she didn't love her."
"What was it?" asked Gypsy.
"Your auntie was lying all alone, upstairs. I went in softly, to do one or two little things about the room, thinking no one was there.
"One faint gaslight was burning, and in the dimness I saw that the sheet was turned down from the face, and a poor little quivering figure was crouched beside it on the bed. It was Joy. She was sobbing as if her heart would break, and such sobs--it would have made you cry to hear them, Gypsy. She didn't hear me come in, and she began to talk to the dead face as if it could hear her. Do you want to know what she said?"
Gypsy was looking very hard the other way. She nodded, but did not speak, gulping down something in her throat.
"This was what she said--softly, in Joy's frightened way, you know: 'You're all I had anyway,' said she. 'All the other girls have got mothers, and now I won't ever have any, any more. I did used to bother you and be cross about my practising, and not do as you told me, and I wish I hadn't, and--
"Oh--hum, look here--mother," interrupted 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