on the theory that they can't help it, are----"

"Oh, I know that too!"

"What?"

"Cowards."

"Exactly."

"I hate cowards," said Gypsy, in a little flash, and then stood with her
back half turned, her eyes fixed on the carpet, as if she were puzzling
out a proposition in Euclid, somewhere hidden in its brown oak-leaves.

"Take a chair, and sit by the window and think of it," remarked Tom, in
his most aggravating tone.

"That's precisely what I intend to do, sir," said Gypsy; and was as good
as her word. She went up-stairs and shut her door, and, what was
remarkable, nobody saw anything more of her. What was still more
remarkable, nobody heard anything of her. For a little while it was
perfectly still overhead.

"I hope she isn't crying," said Mr. Breynton, who was always afraid Gypsy
was doing something she ought not to do, and who was in about such a state
of continual astonishment over the little nut-brown romp that had been
making such commotion in his quiet home for twelve years, as a respectable
middle-aged and kind-hearted oyster might be, if a lively young toad were
shut up in his shell.