Sarah climbed up, and sat down beside her upon a long, swaying bough.
“Now don’t you speak a single word,” said Gypsy, with an industrious air, “till I get this done.”
“No, I won’t,” said Sarah. “What do you have to sew for, Saturday afternoons?”
“Why, it’s my mending: mother wants me to do it Saturday morning, and of course it’s a great deal easier, because then you have all the afternoon to yourself, only I never seem to get time; I’m sure I don’t know why. This morning I had my history topics to write.”
“Why, I wrote mine yesterday!”
“I meant to, but I forgot; Miss Melville said I musn’t put it off another day. There! I wasn’t going to talk.”
“Mother does my mending for me,” said Sarah.
“She does! Well, I just wish my mother would. She says it wouldn’t be good for me.”
“How did you tear such a great place, I’d like to know?”
“Put my foot right through it,” said Gypsy, disconsolately. “It was hanging on a chair, and I just stepped in it and started to run, and down I went,—and here’s the skirt. I was running after the cat. I’d put her under my best hat, and she was spinning down stairs. You never saw anything so funny! I’m always doing such things,—I mean like the skirt. I do declare! you mustn’t talk.”