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Still like a dream did it seem, when the train shrieked up and shrieked them away, over and down the mountains, through sunlight and shadow, by forest and river, past village and town and city, away like an arrow, with Yorkbury out of sight, and out of mind, and only the wonderful, untried days that were coming, to think about,—ah, who would think of anything else, that could have such days?
Joy caught it before they could stop her, opened it, read it,—dropped it slowly. It was a telegram from Yorkbury:— "Boston papers say Joy's father died in France two weeks ago." They were all together in the parlor at Yorkbury—Joy very still, with her head in her auntie's lap.
"I suppose that's what makes your hands so red and brown," replied Joy, astonished, casting a glance at her own sickly, white fingers, which she was pinching into a pair of very tight kid gloves. "Here are the Gardens," she said, proudly, as they entered the inclosure. "Aren't they beautiful? I don't suppose you have anything like this in Yorkbury. We'll go up to the Common in a minute."
Gypsy looked on admiringly, for she liked pretty things as well as other girls; but dressed herself in the simple blue-and-white checked foulard, with blue ribbons around her net and at her throat to match, the best suit, over which her mother had taken so much pains, and which had seemed so grand in Yorkbury, hoped her aunt's guests would not laugh at her, and decided to think no more about the matter.
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