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Updated: July 18, 2025
Gypsy recovered from her astonishment with a little start, and said, blushing, for fear she had been rude, "Good morning. I'm Gypsy Breynton. Mother sent me down with a magazine." "I am glad to see you," said Peace Maythorne, smiling. "Won't you sit down?" Gypsy took a chair by the bed, thinking how pleasant the old, pale face, was, after all, and how kindly and happy the smile.
If I'm going to give anything to Peace, I don't want her to." "I think Joy has taken a great fancy to Peace. She would enjoy giving her something very much," said Mrs. Breynton, gravely. "I can't help it. Peace Maythorne belongs to me. It would spoil it all to have Joy have anything to do with it."
There was much washing and mending and altering, sewing on of trimmings and letting down of tucks, to be done for her; for Mrs. Breynton desired to spare her the discomfort of feeling "countrified," and Yorkbury style was not distinctively a la Paris.
I don't see where they are; I told them to be on hand, Kate, where's Mrs. Breynton?" "She's up-stairs, sir, dressing," said the servant, who had opened the door. "Tell her Miss Gypsy has come; sit down, child, and make yourself at home." Gypsy sat down, and Mr. Breynton, not satisfied with sending a message to his wife, went to the foot of the stairs, and called, "Miranda! Joy!"
What was the use of Boston, and all its beautiful sights and busy sounds, if you must walk right along as if you were going to church, and not seem to see nor hear any of the wonders, for fear of being called countrified? Gypsy began to hate the word. "You must take your cousin to the Aquarial Gardens," said Mr. Breynton to Joy, at dinner.
Breynton was just coming up the yard, and Patty put her head in at the entry door, wiping her hands on her apron, and everybody must be kissed all round, and for a few minutes there was such a bustle, that Gypsy could hardly hear herself speak. "What has brought you home so soon?" asked her mother, then. "We didn't look for you for a week yet."
Surly's windows again," he added, nervously, as they passed out of the door and up the street together. "No, sir," said Gypsy, faintly; "it's worse than that." Mr. Breynton heaved a sigh, but said nothing.
Won't you please to take my five dollars, and I'll earn some more picking berries." "I don't want your money, my child," said Mr. Breynton, looking troubled and puzzled. "I'm sorry the nymph is gone; but somehow you do seem to be different from other girls. I didn't know young ladies ever jumped." Gypsy was silent. Her father and mother seemed to think differently about these things.
Breynton ran from one direction, Tom from another, Winnie from a third, and Patty, screaming, in fearful dishabille, from the attic, and the congress that assembled in that entry where sat Gypsy speechless on one stair, and Joy on another, the power fails me to describe. But this was the end of that Christmas night.
Joy stifled a groan, and by dint of great exertions turned it into a laugh. "All the longer to lie awake. It's nice, isn't it?" "Ye-es. Let's talk. People that sit up all night talk, I guess." "Well, I guess it would be a good plan. You begin." "I don't know anything to say." "Well, I'm sure I don't." Silence again. "Joy Breynton." "We-ell?"
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