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Updated: July 16, 2025
"Why, I never heard of such a thing!" said Joy, looking shocked. "Well, it's splendid; you ought to come up to Yorkbury, and go out with me. Tom would make you a raft." "What do the people say?" said Joy, looking at her mother. "Oh, there aren't any people there to see. If there were, they wouldn't say anything. I have just the nicest times.
Breynton came up from the village, with her pleasant smile, and her little basket that half Yorkbury knew so well by sight, for the biscuit and the jellies, the blanc-mange, and the dried beef and the cookies, that it brought to so many sick-beds. Gypsy had been watching for her impatiently, and ran down to the gate to meet her. "Well, did you find her?" "Oh, yes."
And Peace, that makes me think"—Joy grew suddenly very grave; there was an earnest, thoughtful look in her eyes that Joy's eyes did not have when she first came to Yorkbury; a look that they had been slowly learning all this year; that they had been very quickly learning these past few weeks—"When I get home it's going to be hard—a good many things are going to be hard."
Cousin Mary Ann received her hospitably, and the evening and the night passed quickly away. Mrs. Surly was very curious, and somewhat suspicious on the subject of Gypsy's return to Yorkbury, under such peculiar circumstances.
Still she really wanted to do something to make her happy, and so she set about it in the only ways she knew. "See here, Joy," she called, merrily, after breakfast, "let's come out and have a good time. I have lots and lots to show you out in the barn and round. Then there is all Yorkbury besides, and the mountains. Which'll you do first, see the chickens or walk out on the ridge-pole?"
"On the what?" "On the ridge-pole; that's the top of the roof, you know, over the kitchen. Tom and I go out there ever so much." "Oh, I'd rather see the chickens. I should think you'd kill yourself walking on roofs. Wait till I get my gloves." "Oh, you don't want gloves in Yorkbury," said Gypsy, with a very superior air. "That's nothing but a Boston fashion.
Isn't it funny in us to love each other so much?" "Real," said Gypsy, trying to laugh, with two bright tears rolling down her cheeks. Both the girls were thinking just then of Joy's coming to Yorkbury.
The literature of a Vermont town is not of the most world-stirring nature, and it did occur to him, occasionally, that business was rather dull, but his wife loved the old home, the children were comfortable and happy, and he himself, he thought, was getting rather old to start out on any new venture elsewhere; so Yorkbury seemed likely to be the family nest for life.
And so there was nothing to do but take that dreary journey home from Washington, come quietly back to Yorkbury, come back without father or mother, into the home that must be hers now, the only one left her in all the wide world; nothing to do but to live on, and never to see him any more, never to kiss him, never to creep up into his arms, or hear his brave, merry voice calling, "Joyce, Joyce," as it used to call about the old home.
The rest were variously mounted: Francis Rowe rode a fiery colt that his father had just bought, and the like of which was not to be seen in Yorkbury. Up—up, winding on and away, through odors of fragrant pines and unseen flowers, under the soft, green shadows, through the yellow lights. How beautiful—how beautiful it was! "Who'll race with me?" inquired Mr. Francis Rowe suddenly.
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