little white cloud, with a silver fringe, and not have anything to do but
float round all day in the sunshine,--no lessons nor torn dresses nor
hateful old sewing to do."

"S'posin' it thunder-stormed," suggested Winnie. "You might get striked."

"That would be fun," said Gypsy, laughing. "I always wanted to see where
the lightning came from."

"Supposing there came a wind, and blew you away," suggested Tom, sleepily.

"I never thought of that," said Gypsy. "I guess I'd rather do the sewing."

Presently a little scarlet maple-blossom floated out on the wind, and
dropped right into Gypsy's mouth (which most unpoetically happened to be
open).

"Just think," said Gypsy, whose thoughts seemed to have taken a
metaphysical turn, "of being a little red flower, that dies and drops into
the water, and there's never any fruit nor anything,--I wonder what it was
made for."

"Perhaps just to make you ask that question," answered Tom; and there was
a great deal more in the answer than Tom himself supposed. This was every
solitary word that was said on that boat-ride. A little is so much better
than much, sometimes, and goes a great deal further.

It seemed to Gypsy the pleasantest boat-ride she had ever taken; but Tom
became tired of it before she did, and went up to the house, carrying
Winnie with him. Gypsy stayed a little while to row by herself.