had fallen, and one spread out on the counterpane, with benzine on it.
What with kerosene oil, candle drippings, and mugs of milk, Gypsy managed
to keep one dress under the benzine treatment all the time; it was an
established institution, and had long ago ceased to arouse remark, even
from Tom. There was also a cloak upon one chair, and a crocheted cape tied
by the tassels on another. There was a white tippet hanging on the
stovepipe. There was a bandbox up in one corner with a pretty hat lying on
the outside, its long, light feather catching the dust; it was three days
now since Sunday. There were also two pairs of shoes, one pair of rubbers,
and one slipper under the bed; the other slipper lay directly in the
middle of the room. Then the wardrobe door was wide open,--it was too full
to stay shut,--upon a sight which, I think, even Gypsy would hardly want
put into print. White skirts and dressing-sacks; winter hoods that ought
to have been put up in camphor long ago; aprons hung up by the trimming; a
calico dress that yawned mournfully out of a twelve-inch tear in the
skirt; a pile of stockings that had waited long, and were likely to wait
longer, for darning; some rubber-boots and a hatchet.

The bureau drawers, Tom observed, were tightly shut,--probably for very
good reasons. The table, at which he sat, was a curiosity to the
speculative mind. The cloth was two-thirds off, and slipping, by a very
gradual process, to the floor. On the remaining third stood an inkstand
and a bottle of mucilage, as well as a huge pile of books, a glass
tumbler, a Parian vase, a jack-knife, a pair of scissors, a thimble, two
spools of thread, a small kite, and a riding-whip. The rest of the table
had been left free to draw a map on, and was covered with pencils and
rubber, compasses, paper, and torn geography leaves.

There were several pretty pictures on the walls, but they were all hung
crookedly; the curtain at the window was unlooped, and you could write