“Oh, I hate Boston!” cried Gypsy, pulling off her things. “I didn’t like anything but the Museum and Bunker Hill; and Joy wore silk dresses, and wouldn’t let me look in the shop-windows, ’n I took a poor, little beggar-girl home, and you can’t run round any, and Aunt Miranda told me she’d tell you, and I hate it, and she’s just as cross as a bear!”
“Your aunt cross!” said her mother, who could make neither beginning nor end of Gypsy’s excited story.
“I guess she is,” said Gypsy, with an emphasis. “Oh, I am so glad to get home. Where’s the kitty, and how’s Peace Maythorne and everybody, and Winnie has a new jacket, hasn’t he?”
Mr. and Mrs. Breynton exchanged glances. They saw that something was wrong; but wisely considered that that time was not the one for making any inquiries into the matter. Mrs. Breynton thought, also, that if Gypsy had been guilty of ill-temper or rudeness, she would confess it herself. She was right; for as soon as dinner was over, Gypsy called her away alone, and told her all the story. They were shut up together a long time, and when Gypsy came out her eyes were red with crying.
All that Mrs. Breynton said does not matter here; but Gypsy is not likely soon to forget it. A few words spoken, just as the conversation ended, became golden mottoes that helped her over many rough places in her life.
“It is all the old trouble, Gypsy,—you ‘didn’t think.’ A little self-control, a moment’s quiet thought, would have saved all this.”
“Oh, I know it!” sobbed Gypsy. “That’s what always ails me. I’m always doing things, and always sorry for them. I mean to do right, and I cannot remember. What shall I do with myself, mother?”
“Gypsy,” said her mother, very soberly, “this will never do. You can think. And Gypsy, my child, in every one of these little thoughtless words and acts God sees a sin.”
“A sin when you didn’t think?” exclaimed Gypsy.
“You must learn to think, Gypsy; and He will teach you.”