This was Gypsy's one unalleviated affliction in life. That a girl could
possibly be pretty with straight hair, had never once entered her mind.
All the little girls in story-books had curls. Who ever heard of the
straight-haired maiden that made wreaths of the rosebuds, or saw the
fairies, or married the Prince? And Gypsy's hair was not only straight, it
was absolutely uncurlable. A week's penance "done up in paper" made no
more impression than if you were to pinch it.

However, that did not interfere with her making a bit of a picture,
perched up there on the roof beside Tom, among her burs and her flowers
and her moss, her face all dimples from forehead to chin.

"Where have you been?" said Tom, trying to look severe, and making a most
remarkable failure.

"Oh, only over to the three-mile swamp after white violets. Sarah Rowe,
she got her two hands full, and then she just fell splash into the water,
full length, and lost 'em--Oh, dear me, how I laughed! She did look so
funny."

"Your boots are all mud," said Tom.

"Who cares?" said Gypsy, with a merry laugh, tipping all the wet, earthy
moss out on her lap, as she spoke. "See! isn't there a quantity? I like
moss 'cause it fills up. Violets are pretty enough, only you _do_ have to
pick 'em one at a time. Innocence comes up by the handful,--only mine's
most all roots."

"I don't know what's going to become of you," said Tom, drawing down the