uneasy sleep that night.

There was a great awe and a great joy in this thought; but sharp upon it
came another, as a pleasure is followed by a sudden pain,--a thought that
came all unbidden, and talked with Gypsy, and would not go away. It was,
that she had gone to bed that night without a prayer. She was tired and
sleepy, and the lamp went out, and so,--and so,--well, she didn't know
exactly how it came about.

Gypsy's bowed head fell into her hands, and there, crouched in the lonely
boat, under the lonely sky, she put this thought into a few whispered
words, and I know there was One to hear it.

Other thoughts had Gypsy after this; but they were those she could not
have put into words. For three of those solemn, human syllables had
sounded from the distant clock, and far over the mountain-tops the sweet
summer dawn was coming. Gypsy had never seen the sun rise. She had seen,
to be sure, many times, the late, winter painting of crimson and gold in
the East, which unfolded itself before her window, and chased away her
dreams. But she had never watched that slow, mysterious change from
midnight to morning, which is the only spectacle that can properly be
called a sunrise.

There was something in Gypsy that made her sit like a statue there,
wrapped in Tom's old coat, her face upturned, and her very breath held in,
as the heavy shadows softened and melted, and the stars began to dim in a
pale, gray light, that fell and folded in the earth like a mist; as the
clouds, that floated faintly over the mountains, blushed pink from the
touch of an unseen sun; as the pink deepened into crimson, and the crimson
burned to fire, and the outlines of the mountains were cut in gold; as the