That evening Mr. and Mrs. Breynton were out to tea, and Tom was off fishing. Mrs. Breynton left Mrs. Littlejohn’s supper in a basket on the shelf, and told Gypsy where it was. Gypsy had been having a great frolic in the fresh hay with Sarah Rowe, and came in late. No one but Winnie was there. She ate her supper in a great hurry, and went out again. Patty saw her from the window, and concluded she had gone to Mrs. Littlejohn’s.
That night, about eleven o’clock, some one knocked at Mrs. Breynton’s door, and woke her up.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Oh, mother Breynton!” said a doleful voice; “what do you suppose I’ve done now?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Breynton, with a resigned sigh.
“I hope she hasn’t been walking in her sleep again,” said Mr. Breynton, nervously.
“Forgotten Mrs. Littlejohn’s supper,” said the doleful voice through the key-hole.
“Why, Gypsy!”
“I know it,” said Gypsy, humbly. “Couldn’t I dress and run down?”
“Why, no indeed! it can’t be helped now. Run back to bed.”