up, and I _did_ forget to lock the boat, and I couldn't get ashore."

"How long have you been here?" Tom was very pale.

"Since a little before two. There was a splendid sunrise, only it was
rather cold, and I didn't know where I was at first, and I--well, I'm glad
you're come."

"Put on my coat over that. Lean up against my arm--so. Don't try to talk,"
said Tom, in a quick, business-like tone. But Tom was curiously pale.

"Why, there's no harm done, Tom, dear," said Gypsy, looking up into his
face.

"I can't talk about it, Gypsy--I _can't_, I thought, I----"

Tom looked the other way to see the view, and did not finish his sentence.

"You don't suppose she's going to be a somnambulist?" asked Mr. Breynton.
This was the first time he had remembered to be worried over any of
Gypsy's peculiarities all day. He had spent so much time in looking at
her, and kissing her, and wiping his spectacles.

"No, indeed," said her mother; "it was nothing in the world but
popped-corn. The child will never have another such turn, I'll venture."

And she never did.

It is needless to say that nobody scolded Gypsy for forgetting to lock the
boat. She was likely enough to remember the incident. She had, perhaps,