something or other about the baggage.

Gypsy was springing forward to meet her, but stopped short. The last
time she had seen Joy, she was in gay Stuart-plaid silk and corals. She
had forgotten all about the mourning. How thin and tall it made Joy
look!

Gypsy remembered herself in a minute and threw her arms warmly around
Joy's neck. But Joy did not return the embrace, and gave her only one
cold kiss. She had inferred from Gypsy's momentary hesitation that she
was not glad to see her.

Gypsy, on her part, thought Joy was proud and disagreeable. Thus the two
girls misunderstood each other at the very beginning.

"I'm real glad to see you," said Gypsy.

"I thought we never should get here!" said Joy, petulantly. "The cars
were so dusty, and your coach jolts terribly. I shouldn't think the town
would use such an old thing."

Gypsy's face fell, and her welcome grew faint.

Joy had but little to say at supper. She sat by her father and ate her
muffins like a very hungry, tired child—like a very cross child, Gypsy
thought. Joy's face was always pale and fretful; in the bright lamplight
now, after the exhaustion of the long journey, it had a pinched,
unpleasant look.

"Hem," coughed Tom, over his teacup. Gypsy looked up and their eyes met.