time."

"Well," said Mrs. Breynton, with a smile, "I'm glad you're trying afresh
to hammer it in. Pick up the beads, and tear down the image, and go to
work with a little system. You'll be surprised to find how fast the room
will come to order."

"I think," she added, as she shut the door, "that it was hardly worth
while to----"

"To shake Winnie?" interrupted Gypsy, demurely. "No, not at all; I ought
to have known better."

Mrs. Breynton did not offer to help Gypsy in the task which bade fair to
be no easy one, of putting her room in order; but, with a few encouraging
words, she went down stairs and left her. It would have been far easier
for her to have gone to work and done the thing herself, than to see
Gypsy's face so clouded and discouraged. But she knew it would be the ruin
of Gypsy. Her only chance of overcoming her natural thoughtlessness, and
acquiring the habits of a lady, lay in the persistent doing over and over
again, by her own unaided patience, these very things that came so hard to
her. Gypsy understood this perfectly, and had the good sense to think her
mother was just right about it. It was not want of training, that gave
Gypsy her careless fashion of looking after things. Mrs. Breynton was a
wise, as well as a loving mother, and had done everything in the way of
punishment, reproof, warning, persuasion, and argument, that mothers can
do for the faults of children. Nor was it for want of a good example, Mrs.
Breynton was the very pink of neatness. It was a natural _kink_ in Gypsy,
that was as hard to get out as a knot in an apple-tree, and which depended
entirely on the child's own will for its eradication. This disorder in her