“Have you lost your way? Where do you live?” asked Gypsy, with great, pitying eyes. Gypsy could never bear to see anybody cry; and then the little creature was so ragged and thin.
“I live there,” said the child, pointing vaguely down the street. “Mother’s to home there somewhars.”
“I’ll go with you and find your mother,” said Gypsy; and taking the child’s hand, she started off in her usual impulsive fashion, without a thought beyond her pity.
“Gypsy! Gypsy Breynton!” called Joy. “The police will take her home—you mustn’t!”
But Gypsy did not hear, and Joy, shocked and indignant, went home and left her.
In about an hour Gypsy came back, flushed and panting with her haste. Joy, in speechless amazement, had looked from the window and seen her running across the Common.
Her aunt met her on the stairs with a face like a thunder-cloud.
“Why, Gypsy Breynton, I am ashamed of you! How could you do such a thing as to go off with a beggar, and take hold of her hand right there in Summer Street, and go nobody knows where, alone, into those terrible Irish streets! It was a dreadful thing to do, and I should think you would have known better, and I really think I must write to your mother about it immediately!”
Gypsy stood for a moment, motionless with astonishment. Then, without saying a word, she passed her aunt quickly on the stairs, and ran up to her room. Her face was very white. If she had been at home she would have broken forth in a torrent of angry words.
Kate, the house-maid, was sweeping the entry.