"I wish he didn't have to go," said Gypsy. She felt sorry for Joy just
then, seeing this best side of her that she liked. For about a minute
she wished she had let her have the upper drawer.

[Illustration]

Joy's father started by a very early train, and it was still hardly
light when he sat down to his hurried breakfast, with Joy close by him,
that pale, pinched look on her face, and so utterly silent that Gypsy
was astonished. She would have thought she cared nothing about her
father's going, if she had not seen her standing in the gray light
upstairs.

"Joyce, my child, you haven't eaten a mouthful," said her father.

"I can't."

"Come, dear, do, just a little, to please father."

Joy put a spoonful of tea to her lips, and put it down. Presently there
was a great rumbling of wheels outside, and the coachman rang the
door-bell.

"Well, Joy."

Joy stood up, but did not speak. Her father, holding her close in his
arms, drew her out with him into the entry. Mrs. Breynton turned away;
so did Gypsy and the rest. In a minute they heard Joy go into the parlor
and shut the door, and then her father called out to them with his