Her mother spoke in a quiet, decided tone, with which Gypsy knew there
was no arguing. She helped her fold her dresses and lock her trunk, very
silently, for Gypsy, and then ran away to busy herself with Patty in
getting the travelers' luncheon. When Gypsy felt badly, she always
hunted up something to do; in this she showed the very best of her good
sense. And let me tell you, girls, as a little secret—in the worst
fits of the "blues" you ever have, if you are guilty of having any, do
you go straight into the nursery and build a block house for the baby,
or upstairs and help your mother baste for the machine, or into the
dining-room to help Bridget set the table, or into the corner where some
diminutive brother is crying over his sums which a very few words from
you would straighten, or into the parlor where your father sits shading
his eyes from the lamplight, with no one to read him the paper; and
before you know it, you will be as happy as a queen. You don't believe
it? Try and see.

Gypsy drowned her sorrow at her mother's departure, in broiling her
mutton-chops and cutting her pie, and by the time the coach drove to the
door, and the travelers stood in the entry with bag and baggage, all
ready to start, the smiles had come back to her lips, and the twinkle to
her eyes.

"Good-bye, father! O-oh, mother Breynton, give me another kiss.
There!—one more. Now, if you don't write just as soon as you get
there!"

"Be a good girl, and take nice care of Winnie," called her mother from
the coach-window. And then they were driven rapidly away, and the house
seemed to grow still and dark all at once, and a great many clouds to be
in the warm, autumn sky. The three children stood a moment in the entry