were all three running to the windows and the door every two minutes and
dressed in their very "Sunday-go-to-meeting best;" for father and mother
were coming. Tom had laughed well at this plan of dressing up—Gypsy's
notion, of course, and ridiculous enough, said Tom; fit for babies like
Winnie, and _girls_. (I wish I could give you in print the peculiar
emphasis with which Tom was wont to dwell on this word.) But for all
that, when Gypsy came down in her new Scotch plaid dress, with her
cheeks so red, and her hair so smooth and black; and Winnie strutted
across the room counting the buttons on his best jacket, Tom slipped
away to his room, and came down with his purple necktie on.

It made a pretty, homelike picture—the bright table and the firelight,
and the eager faces at the window, and the gay dresses. Any father and
mother might have been glad to call it all their own, and come into it
out of the cold and the dark, after a weary day's journey.

These cozy, comfortable touches about it—the little conceit of the
painted china, and the best clothes—were just like Gypsy. Since she
was glad to see her father and mother, it was imperatively necessary
that she should show it; there was no danger but what her joy would have
been sufficiently evident—where everything else was—in her eyes; but
according to Gypsy's view of matters, it must express itself in some
sort of celebration. Whether her mother wouldn't have been quite as well
pleased if her delicate, expensive porcelain had been kept safely in the
closet; whether, indeed, it was exactly right for her to take it out
without leave, Gypsy never stopped to consider. When she wanted to do a
thing, she could never see any reasons why it shouldn't be done, like a
few other girls I have heard of in New England. However, just such a
mother as Gypsy had was quite likely to pardon such a little
carelessness as this, for the love in it, and the welcoming thoughts.