"Mother."

Inside the note was a slip for Gypsy, with this written on it:

"I must stop to tell you, Gypsy, of a little thing your aunt said
the day before she died. She had been speaking of Joy in her weak,
troubled way—of some points wherein she hoped she would be a
different woman from her mother, and had then lain still a while,
her eyes closed, something—as you used to say when you were a little
girl—very _sorry_ about her mouth, when suddenly she turned and
said, 'I wish I'd made Gypsy's visit here a little pleasanter. Tell
her she must think as well as she can of her auntie, for Joy's sake,
now.'"

Gypsy folded up the paper, and sat silent a moment, thinking her own
thoughts, as Tom saw, and not wishing to be spoken to.

Those of you who have read "Gypsy Breynton" will understand what these
thoughts might be. Those who have not, need only know that Gypsy's aunt
had been rather a gay, careless lady, well dressed and jeweled, and fond
enough of dresses and jewels; and that in a certain visit Gypsy made her
not long ago, she had been far from thoughtful of her country niece's
comfort.

And this was how it had ended. Poor Aunt Miranda!

"Well," said Gypsy, at last, with something dim in her eyes, "I dare say
I was green and awkward, and it was half my fault. I never could
understand how people could just turn round when anybody dies, and say
they were good and perfect, when it wasn't any such a thing, and I can't