Here was the mantel-shelf, covered with her little knick-knacks that no
one was ever allowed to touch but herself—pictures framed in pine
cones, boxes of shell-work, baskets of wafer-work, cologne-bottles,
watchcases, ivy-shoots and minerals, on which the dust accumulated at
its own sweet will, and the characteristic variety and arrangement
whereof none ever disputed with her. What if Joy should bring a trunkful
of ornaments?

There in the wardrobe were her treasures covering six shelves—her
kites and balls of twine, fishlines and doll's bonnets, scraps of gay
silk and jackknives, old compositions and portfolios, colored paper and
dried moss, pieces of chalk and horse-chestnuts, broken jewelry and
marbles. It was a curious collection. One would suppose it to be a sort
of co-partnership between the property of a boy and girl, in which the
boy decidedly predominated.

[Illustration]

Into this wardrobe Gypsy looked regretfully. Three of those
shelves—those precious shelves—must be Joy's now. And what _should_
be done with the things?

Then there were the bureau drawers. What sorcerer's charms, to say
nothing of the somewhat unwilling fingers of a not very enthusiastic
little girl, could cram the contents of four (and those so full that
they were overflowing through the cracks) into two?

Moreover, as any one acquainted with certain chapters in Gypsy's past
history will remember, her premises were not always celebrated for the
utmost tidiness. And here was Joy, used to her elegant carpets and