Her mother kissed her many times, and Gypsy clung to her neck, and was very still. Whatever thoughts she had just then, she never told them to any one.
The afternoon passed away like a merry dream. Gypsy was so happy that she had had the talk with her mother; so glad to be kissed and forgiven and loved and helped; to find every one so pleased to see her back, and home so dear, and the mountains so blue and beautiful, and the sunlight so bright, that she scarcely knew whether she were asleep or awake. She must hunt up the kitten, and feed the chickens, and take a peep at the cow, and stroke old Billy in his stall; she must see how many sweet peas were left on the vines, and climb out on the shed-roof that had been freshly shingled since she was gone, and run down to the Kleiner Berg, and over to see Sarah Rowe. She must know just what Tom had been doing this interminable week, just how many buttons Winnie had lost off from his jacket, and what kind of pies Patty had baked for dinner. She must kiss her mother twenty times an hour, and pull her father’s whiskers, and ride Winnie on her shoulder. Best of all, perhaps, it was to run down to Peace Maythorne’s, and find the sunlight golden in the quiet room, and the pale face smiling on the pillow; to hear the gentle voice, when the door opened, say, “Oh, Gypsy!” in such a way,—as no other voice ever said it; and then to sit down and lay her head upon the pillow by Peace, and tell her all that had happened.
“Well,” said Peace, smiling, “I think you have learned a good deal for one week, and I guess you will never unlearn it.”
“I guess you’ll be very sorry you went to Bosting,” remarked Winnie, in an oracular manner, that night, when they were all together in their old places in the sitting-room. “The Meddlesome Quinine Club had a concert here last Wednesday, and we had preserved seats. What do you think of that?”
This is a copy of the letter that found its way to Beacon Street a few days after:—
“My dear Uncle and Aunt Miranda:
“I am so sorry I don’t know what to do. I was so tired sitting still, and going to dinner-parties, and then auntie was displeased about the beggar-girl (I took her home, and her mother was just as glad as she could be, and so poor!) and so I felt angry and homesick, and I know I oughtn’t to have gone to such a place without asking; but I didn’t think; and then I came home in the afternoon train, but I didn’t think when I did that either. Mother says that was no excuse, and I know it was very wicked in me to do such a thing. Mrs. Surly met me in the cars at Rutland, and took me to spend the night with her cousin, Mrs. Mary Ann Jacobs; so I got along safely, and nothing happened to me, but one drunken man that kept talking.
“Mother says I have done a very rude and unkind thing, to leave you all so, when you had invited me there, and been so good to me. I know it. I had a real nice time when I went to see Bunker Hill and the Museum with uncle; and, of course, it was my own fault that I didn’t like to wear gloves, and choked so at dinner.
“Mother says you will never want to see me there again; and I shouldn’t think you would. Seems to me I never did such a thing in all my life, and you haven’t any idea how badly I feel about it. But I know that doesn’t help it any.
“I’ve made up my mind never to do anything again till I’ve thought it all over as many as twelve times. Mother says two or three would do, but I think twelve would be safer.