"What's going to become of her? Who's going to take care of her?"

"That is just what I came in here to talk about."

"Why, I don't see what I have to do with it!" said Gypsy, astonished.

"Her father thinks of going abroad, and so there would be no one to
leave her with. He finds himself quite worn out by your aunt's sickness,
the care and anxiety and trouble. His business also requires some member
of the firm to go to France this fall, and he has almost decided to go.
The only thing that makes him hesitate is Joy."

"I see what you mean now, mother—I see it in your eyes. You want Joy
to come here." Gypsy spoke in a slow, uncomfortable way, as if she were
trying very hard not to believe her own words.

"Yes," said Mrs. Breynton, "that is it."

Gypsy's bright face fell. "Well?" she said, at last.

"I told your uncle," said her mother, "that I could not decide on the
spot, but would let him know next week. The question of Joy's coming
here will affect you more than any member of the family, and I thought
it only fair to you that we should talk it over frankly before it is
settled."

Gypsy had a vague notion that all mothers would not have been so
thoughtful, but she said nothing.

"I do not wish," proceeded Mrs. Breynton, "to make any arrangement in