cheerful good-byes, and then he was in the coach, and the door was shut.

Gypsy stole into the parlor. Joy was standing there alone by the window.

"Why don't you cry?" said Gypsy; "I would."

"I don't want to," said Joy, moving away. Her sorrow at parting with her
father made her fretful that morning. This was Joy's way. She had
inherited her mother's fashion of taking trouble. Gypsy did not
understand it, and her sympathy cooled a little. Still she really wanted
to do something to make her happy, and so she set about it in the only
ways she knew.

"See here, Joy," she called, merrily, after breakfast, "let's come out
and have a good time. I have lots and lots to show you out in the barn
and round. Then there is all Yorkbury besides, and the mountains.
Which'll you do first, see the chickens or walk out on the ridge-pole?"

"On the _what_?"

"On the ridge-pole; that's the top of the roof, you know, over the
kitchen. Tom and I go out there ever so much."

"Oh, I'd rather see the chickens. I should think you'd kill yourself
walking on roofs. Wait till I get my gloves."

"Oh, you don't want gloves in _Yorkbury_," said Gypsy, with a very
superior air. "That's nothing but a Boston fashion. Slip on your hat and
sack in a jiff, and come along."