“That is just what I like,” said the lady. “Mrs. Breynton, can’t you persuade your niece to play a little for me?”
“Certainly, Gypsy,” said her aunt, with a look which plainly said, “Don’t think of it.”
Gypsy’s mother had taught her that it was both disobliging and affected to refuse to play when she was asked, no matter how simple her music might be. So, not knowing how to refuse, and wishing the floor would open and swallow her up, she went to the piano, and played two sweet Scotch airs. She played them well for a girl of her age, and the lady thanked her, and seemed to enjoy them. But that night, just as she was going to bed, she accidentally overheard her aunt saying to Joy,—
“It was very stupid and forward in her. I tried to make her understand, but I couldn’t—those little songs, too! Why, with all your practice, and such teachers as you have had, I wouldn’t think of letting you play before anybody at your age.”
Gypsy cried herself to sleep that night.
Just a week from the day that she came to Boston, Gypsy and Joy were out shopping in Summer Street. They had just come out of Hovey’s, when they met a ragged child, not more than three years old, crying as if its heart were broken.
“Oh, dear!” cried Gypsy; “see that poor little girl! I’m going to see what’s the matter.”
“Don’t!” said Joy, horrified; “come along! Nobody stops to speak to beggars in Boston; what are you doing?”
For Gypsy had stopped and taken the child’s two dirty little fists down from her eyes, and looked down into the tear-stained and mud-stained face to see what was the matter.
“I—I don’t know where nobody is,” sobbed the child.