"No; if she comes, she must sleep with you. With our family and only one
servant, I could hardly keep up the extra work that would cause for six
months or a year."

"Six months or a year! In my room!"

Gypsy walked back and forth across the room two or three times, her
merry forehead all wrinkled into a knot.

"Well," at last, "I've said it, and I'll stick to it, and I'll try to
make her have a good time, anyway."

"Come here, Gypsy."

Gypsy came, and one of those rare, soft kisses—very different from the
ordinary, everyday kisses—that her mother gave her when she hadn't
just the words to say how pleased she was, fell on her forehead, and
smoothed out the knot before you could say "Jack Robinson."

That very afternoon Gypsy wrote her note to Joy:

"Dear Joy:

"I'm real sorry your mother died. You'd better come right up here
next week, and we'll go chestnutting over by Mr. Jonathan Jones's. I
tell you it's splendid climbing up. If you're very careful, you
needn't tear your dress _very_ badly. Then there's the raft, and you
might play baseball, too. I'll teach you.