quite dark, but she lighted a lamp, and went at it afresh. Winnie came up
to the entry door, and, at a respectful distance, told her they were
"popping" corn down stairs; but she shook her head, and proceeded with her
dusting like a hero. Tom whistled for her up the chimney-flue; but she
only gave a little thump on the floor, and said she was busy.

It was like walking into a labyrinth to dispose of the contents of that
table-cloth. How to put away the pencils and the rubber, when the
drawing-box was lost; how to collect all the cookey-crumbs and wandering
needles, that slipped out of your finger as fast as you took hold of them;
where on earth to put those torn geography leaves, that wouldn't stay in
the book, and couldn't be thrown away; where _was_ the cork to the
inkstand? and how should she hang up the riding-whip, with the string
gone? These were questions that might well puzzle a more systematic mind
than Gypsy's. However, in due time, the room was restored to an order that
was delightful to see,--for, if Gypsy made up her mind to a thing, she
could do it thoroughly and skilfully,--and she returned to the bureau
drawer. This drawer was a fair specimen of the rest of Gypsy's drawers,
shelves, and cupboards, and their name was Legion. Moreover, it was an
"upper drawer," and where is the girl that does not know what a delicate
science is involved in the rearranging of these upper drawers? So many
laces, and half-worn collars that don't belong there, are always getting
in; loose coppers have such a way of accumulating in the crevices; all
your wandering pins and hair-pins make it a rendezvous by a species of
free-masonry utterly inexplicable; then your little boxes fit in so
tightly, and never have room to open, and are always getting their covers
caught when you shut the drawer, and, when you try to keep them down, you
pinch your fingers so.

Please to imagine, O orderly readers! who keep every pin in its proper