That look said unutterable things.

[Illustration]

If it had not been for Mrs. Breynton, that supper would have been a
dismal affair. But she had such a cozy, comfortable way about her, that
nobody could help being cozy and comfortable if they tried hard for it.
After a while, when Mr. Breynton and his brother had gone away into the
library for a talk by themselves, and Joy began to feel somewhat rested,
she brightened up wonderfully, and became really quite entertaining in
her account of her journey. She thought Vermont looked cold and stupid,
however, and didn't remember having noticed much about the mountains,
for which Gypsy thought she should never forgive her.

But there was at least one thing Gypsy found out that evening to like
about Joy. She loved her father dearly. One could not help noticing how
restless she was while he was out of the room, and how she watched the
door for him to come back; how, when he did come, she stole away from
her aunt and sat down by him, slipping her hand softly into his. As he
had been all her life the most indulgent and patient of fathers, and was
going, early to-morrow morning, thousands of miles away from her into
thousands of unknown dangers, it was no wonder.

While it was still quite early, Joy proposed going to bed. She was
tired, and besides, she wanted to unpack a few of her things. So Gypsy
lighted the lamp and went up with her.

"So I am to sleep with you," said Joy, as they opened the door, in by no
means the happiest of tones, though they were polite enough.