“Oh, I’m tired to death of the Aquarial Gardens,” answered Joy; “none of the girls I go with ever go now, and I’ve seen it all so many times.”
“But Gypsy hasn’t. Try the Museum, then.”
“I can’t bear the Museum. The white snakes in bottles make me so nervous,” said Joy.
“A white snake in a bottle! Why, I never saw one,” said Gypsy, with sparkling eyes.
“Well, I’ll go with you, child, if Joy hasn’t the politeness to do it,” said her uncle, patting her eager face.
“Mr. Breynton,” said his wife, petulantly, “you are always blaming that child for something.”
Yet, in the very next breath, she scolded Joy, for delaying her practising ten minutes, more severely than her father would have done if she had told a falsehood.
Mr. Breynton was very busy the next day, and forgot all about Gypsy; but the day after he left his store at an early hour, and took her to the Museum, and out to Bunker Hill. That was the happiest day Gypsy spent in Boston.
The day after her aunt had a large dinner company. No one would have imagined that Gypsy dreaded it in the least; but, in her secret heart, she did. Joy seemed to be perfectly happy when she was dressed in her brilliant Stuart plaid silk, with its long sash and valenciennes lace ruffles, and spent a full half hour exhibiting her jewelry-box to Gypsy’s wondering eyes, and trying to decide whether she would wear her coral brooch and ear-rings, which matched the scarlet of the plaid, or a handsome malachite set, which were the newer.
Gypsy looked on admiringly, for she liked pretty things as well as other girls; but dressed herself in the simple blue-and-white checked foulard, with blue ribbons around her net and at her throat to match,—the best suit, over which her mother had taken so much pains, and which had seemed so grand in Yorkbury,—hoped her aunt’s guests would not laugh at her, and decided to think no more about the matter.