She wandered about the house and sat out among the clovers and swung on the gate, in a vague, indefinite sort of way, for two weeks; then one morning Mrs. Breynton read her a letter which set her eyes on fire with delight. It was an invitation from her aunt to spend a fortnight in Boston. It so happened that Gypsy had never been to Boston. It was a long day’s journey from Yorkbury, and Mr. Breynton was not much in favor of expensive travelling for the children while they were very young; arguing that the enjoyment and usefulness would be doubled to them when they were older. Besides, Gypsy’s uncle, though he was her father’s brother, had seldom visited Yorkbury. His business kept him closely at home, and his wife and daughter always went to the seaside in summer; so the two families had seen very little of each other for years.
Mrs. Breynton, however, thought it best Gypsy should make this visit; and Gypsy, who had lived twelve years in a State which contained but one city, considered going to Boston very much as she would have considered going to Paradise.
It took a few days of delightful hurry and bustle to get ready. There was much washing and mending and altering, sewing on of trimmings and letting down of tucks, to be done for her; for Mrs. Breynton desired to spare her the discomfort of feeling “countrified,” and Yorkbury style was not distinctively a la Paris. She told Gypsy, frankly, that she must expect to find her cousin Joy better dressed than herself; but that her wardrobe should be neat and tasteful, and in as much accordance with the prevailing mode as was practicable; so she hoped she would have too much self-respect to be troubled by the difference.
“I hope I have,” said Gypsy, with an emphasis.
The days passed so quickly that it seemed like a dream when she had at last bidden them all good-by, kissed her mother just ten times, and was fairly seated alone in the cars, holding on very tightly to her ticket, and wondering if the men put her trunk in. Although she was so little used to travelling, having never been farther than to Burlington or Vergennes in her life, yet she was not in the least afraid to take the journey alone. Her mother felt sure she could take care of herself, and her father had given her so many directions, and written such careful memoranda for her, of changes of cars, refreshment stations, what to do with her check, and how to look after her baggage, that she felt sure she could not make a mistake. Being a bright, observing child, fearless as a boy, and not in the least inclined to worry, she had no trouble at all. The conductor was very kind; an old gentleman, who was pleased with her twinkling eyes and red cheeks, gave her an orange, and helped look after her baggage; two old ladies gave her fennel and peppermints; and before she reached Boston she was on terms of intimacy with six babies, a lapdog, and a canary-bird. Altogether, it had been a most charming journey, and she was almost sorry when they reached the city, and the train rolled slowly into the dark depot.
The passengers were crowding rapidly out, the lamps were lighted in the car, and she felt a little lonely sitting still there, and waiting for her uncle. She had not waited but a moment, however, when a pleasant, whiskered face appeared at the car-door, and one of those genial, “off-hand” voices, that sound at once so kindly and so careless, called out,—
“O—ho! So here’s the girl! Glad to see you, child. This way; the hack’s all ready.”
She was hurried into a carriage, her trunk was tossed on behind, and then the door was shut, and they were driven rapidly away through a maze of crooked streets, glare of gaslights, and brilliant shop-windows, that bewildered Gypsy. She had a notion that was the way fairy-land must look. Her uncle laughed, good-naturedly, at her wide-open eyes.
“Boston is a somewhat bigger village than Yorkbury, I suppose! How’s your father? Why didn’t he come with you? Is your mother well? And that boy—Linnie—Silly—what do call him?”
“Winnie, sir; and then there’s Tom.”