enforced with a little soft kiss on Gypsy's forehead, and a smile that was
as unlike a sermon as smile could be.

Gypsy gave two thoughts to it, while she jumped down stairs three steps at
a time; then, it must be confessed, she forgot it entirely, in the sight
of Tom coolly walking off down the lane without her. But words that Mrs.
Breynton said with a kiss did not slip away from Gypsy's memory "for good
an a'," as easily as that. She had her own little places and times of
private meditation, when such things came up to her like faithful angels,
that are always ready to speak, if you give them the chance.

Tom was still in sight, among the hazel-nut bushes and budding grape-vines
of the lane, and Gypsy ran swiftly after him. She was fleet of foot as a
young gazelle, and soon overtook him. She had just stopped, panting, by
his side, and was proceeding to make some remarks which she thought his
conduct richly deserved, when the sound of some little trotting feet
behind them attracted their attention.

"Why, Winnie Breynton!" said Gypsy.

"Where are you going?" asked Tom, turning round.

"Oh, nowheres in particular," said Winnie, with an absent air.

"Well, you may just turn round and go there, then," said Tom. "We don't
want any little boys with us this afternoon."

"_Little boys!_" said Winnie, with a terrible look; "I'm five years old,
sir. I can button my own jacket, and I've got a snowshovel!"