you knew _that_! It's sumfin about Aunt Miranda, I shouldn't wonder."

"Aunt Miranda! Is anybody sick? Is anybody dead, or anything?"

"I don't know," said Winnie, cheerfully. "But I guess you wish you'd
seen the envelope. It had the funniest little letters punched through on
top—it did now, really."

Gypsy ran into the house at that, and left Winnie to his meditations.

Her mother called her from over the banisters, and she ran upstairs. A
small trunk stood open by the bed, and the room was filled with the
confusion of packing.

"Your Aunt Miranda is sick," said Mrs. Breynton.

"What are you packing up for? You're not going off!" exclaimed Gypsy,
incapable of taking in a greater calamity than that, and quite
forgetting Aunt Miranda.

"Yes. Your uncle has written for us to come right on. She is very sick,
Gypsy."

"Oh!" said Gypsy, penitently; "dangerous?"

"Yes."

Gypsy looked sober because her mother did, and she thought she ought to.

"Your father and I are going in this noon train," proceeded Mrs.