was baaing or braying, or whatever it is that nanny-goats do, so she
swept up to the house in a unique, triumphal procession.

Winnie came out to meet her as she came in at the gate panting and
scarlet-faced.

Fifty years instead of five might Winnie have been at that moment, and
all the cares of Church and State on the shoulders of his pinafore, to
judge from the pucker in his chin. There was always a pucker in Winnie's
chin, when he felt—as the boys call it—"big."

"What do s'pose, Gypsy?—don't you wish you knew?"

"What?"

"Oh, no matter. _I_ know."

"Winnie Breynton!"

"Well," said Winnie, with the air of a Grand Mogul feeding a chicken, "I
don't care if I tell you. We've had a temmygral."

"A telegram!"

"I just guess we have; you'd oughter seen the man. He'd lost his nose,
and——"

"A telegram! Is there any bad news? Where did it come from?"

"It came from Bosting," said Winnie, with a superior smile. "I s'posed