“I’d rather go over into that street where the people and the carriages are,” she said.
“Why!” exclaimed Joy; “don’t you like it? See the fountains, and the deer and the grass, and all.”
“I like the deer,” said Gypsy; “only I feel so sorry for them.”
“Sorry for them!”
“Why, they look so as if they wanted to be off in the woods with nobody round. I like the rabbits better, jumping round at home under the pine-trees. Then I think the trout-brook, at Ripton, is a great deal prettier than these fountains. But then I guess I should like the stores,” she said, apologetically, a little afraid she had hurt or provoked Joy.
“I never saw anybody like you,” said Joy, looking puzzled. When they came to Tremont, and then to Washington Street, Gypsy was in an ecstasy. She kept calling to Joy to see that poor little beggar girl, or that funny old woman, or that negro boy who was trying to stand on his head, or the handsome feather on that lady’s bonnet, and stopped every other minute to see some beautiful toy or picture in a shop-window, till Joy lost all patience.
“Gypsy Breynton! don’t keep staring in the windows so; people will think we are a couple of servant girls just from down East, who never saw Washington Street before!”
“I never did,” said Gypsy, coolly.
But she looked a little sober. What was the use of Boston, and all its beautiful sights and busy sounds, if you must walk right along as if you were going to church, and not seem to see nor hear any of the wonders, for fear of being called countrified? Gypsy began to hate the word.
“You must take your cousin to the Aquarial Gardens,” said Mr. Breynton to Joy, at dinner.