say I think she was, for it would be a lie. But I won't say anything
more against her. Poor Joy, poor Joy! Not to have any mother, Tom, just
think! Oh, just _think_!"




CHAPTER II

SHE SHALL COME?


Supper was ready. It had been ready now for ten minutes. The cool, white
cloth, bright glass, glittering silver, and delicate china painted with
a primrose and an ivy-leaf—the best china, and very extravagant in
Gypsy, of course, but she thought the occasion deserved it—were all
laid in their places upon the table. The tea was steeped to precisely
the right point; the rich, mellow flavor had just escaped the clover
taste on one side, and the bitterness of too much boiling on the other;
the delicately sugared apples were floating in their amber juices in the
round glass preserve-dish, the smoked halibut was done to the most
delightful brown crispness, the puffy, golden drop-cakes were smoking
from the oven, and Patty was growling as nobody but Patty could growl,
for fear they would "slump down intirely an' be gittin' as heavy as
lead," before they could be eaten.

There was a bright fire in the dining-room grate; the golden light was
dancing a jig all over the walls, hiding behind the curtains, coquetting
with the silver, and touching the primroses on the plates to a perfect
sunbeam; for father and mother were coming. Tom and Gypsy and Winnie