Just four days from the morning Mrs. Breynton left, Tom came up from the
office with a very sober face and a letter.

Gypsy ran out to meet him, and put out her hand, in a great hurry to
read it.

"I'll read it to you," said Tom; "it's to me. Come into the parlor."

They went in, and Tom read:

"My Dear Son:

"I write in great haste, just to let you know that your Aunt Miranda
is gone. She died last night at nine o'clock, in great distress. I
was with her at the last. I am glad I came—very; it seems to have
been a comfort to her; she was so lonely and deserted. The funeral
is day after to-morrow, and we shall stay of course. We hope to be
home on Monday. There has been no time yet to make any plans; I
can't tell what the family will do. Poor Joy cannot bear to be left
alone a minute. She follows me round like a frightened child. The
tears come into my eyes every time I look at her, for the thoughts
of three dear, distant faces that might be left just so, but for
God's mercy to them and to me. She is just about Gypsy's age and
height, you know. The disease proved _not_ to be contagious, so you
need feel no anxiety. A kiss to both the children. Your father sends
much love. We shall be glad to get home and see you again.

"Very lovingly,