"Been whittling out there ever since dinner, I suppose?"

"Certainly."

"I thought so. Come here a minute."

"Come out here," said Tom. Gypsy climbed out of the window without the
slightest hesitation, and walked along the ridge-pole with the ease and
fearlessness of a boy. She had on a pretty blue delaine dress, which was
wet and torn, and all stuck together with burs; her boots were covered
with mud to the ankle; her white stockings spattered and brown; her turban
was hanging round her neck by its elastic; her net had come off, and the
wind was blowing her hair all over her eyes; she had her sack thrown over
one arm, and a basket filled to overflowing, with flowers and green moss,
upon the other.

"Well, you're a pretty sight!" said Tom, leisurely regarding her. Indeed,
he was not far from right. In spite of the mud and the burs and the tears,
and the general dropping-to-pieces look about her, Gypsy managed, somehow
or other, to look as pretty as a picture, with her cheeks as red as a
coral, and the soft brown hair that was tossing about her eyes. Gypsy's
eyes were the best part of her. They were very large and brown, and had
that same irresistible twinkle that was in Tom's eyes, only a great deal
more of it; and then it was always there. They twinkled when she was happy
and when she was cross; they twinkled over her school-books; they
twinkled, in spite of themselves, at church and Sabbath school; and, when
she was at play, they shone like a whole galaxy of stars. If ever Gypsy's
eyes ceased twinkling, people knew she was going to be sick. Her hair, I
am sorry to say, was _not_ curly.