which you cannot be happy; but I have great faith in your kind heart,
Gypsy."

"I don't like Joy," said Gypsy, bluntly.

"I know that, and I am sorry it is so," said her mother. "I understand
just what Joy is. But it is not all her fault. She has not been trained
just as you have, Gypsy. She was never taught and helped to be a
generous gentle child, as you have been taught and helped. Your uncle
and aunt felt differently about these things; but it is no matter about
that now—you will understand it better when you are older. It is
enough for you to know that Joy has great excuse for her faults. Even if
they were twice as great as they are, one wouldn't think much about them
now; the poor child is in great trouble, lonely and frightened and
motherless. Think, if God took away _your_ mother, Gypsy."

"But Joy didn't care much about her mother," said honest Gypsy. "She
used to scold her, Joy told me so herself. Besides, I heard her, ever so
many times."

"Peace be with the dead, Gypsy; let all that go. She was all the mother
Joy had, and if you had seen what I saw a night or two before I came
away, you wouldn't say she didn't love her."

"What was it?" asked Gypsy.

"Your auntie was lying all alone, upstairs. I went in softly, to do one
or two little things about the room, thinking no one was there.

"One faint gaslight was burning, and in the dimness I saw that the sheet