Gypsy flushed to her forehead.

"Why, Sarah Rowe! how can you say such a thing? I wouldn't tell a lie for
anything in this world!"

"It wouldn't be a lie!" said Sarah, looking ashamed and provoked. "You
needn't say you didn't do it."

"It would be a lie!" said Gypsy, decidedly. "He'd ask if anybody knew,--I
wouldn't be so mean, even if I knew he couldn't find out. I am going to
tell him this minute."

Gypsy started off, with her cheeks still very red, up the garden paths and
down the road, and Sarah followed slowly. Gypsy's sense of honor had
received too great a shock for her to take pleasure just then in Sarah's
company, and Sarah had an uneasy sense of having lowered herself in her
friend's eyes, so the two girls separated for the afternoon.

It was about a mile to Mr. Breynton's store. The afternoon was warm for
the season, and the road dusty; but Gypsy ran nearly all the way. She was
too much troubled about the accident to think of anything else, and in as
much haste to tell her father as some children would have been to conceal
it from him.

Old Mr. Simms, the clerk, looked up over his spectacles in mild
astonishment, as Gypsy entered the store flushed, and panting, and pretty.
To Mr. Simms, who had no children of his own, and only a deaf wife and a
lame dog at home for company, Gypsy was always pretty, always "such a
wonderful development for a young person," and always just about right in
whatever she did.