“I’m terrible thirsty!” said Mrs. Littlejohn, with a long groan. “There’s some water in that air pail.”
Gypsy went into the corner where the pail stood, and filled the mug with water; then, not being able to think of anything more to say, she concluded to go.
“Good mornin’clock,” said Mrs. Littlejohn, in a forgiving tone; “I hope you’ll come agin.”
Gypsy secretly thought it was doubtful if she ever did. Her charity, like that of most young people of her age and experience, was not of the sort calculated to survive under difficulties, or to deal successfully with shrewish old women.
After inquiring in vain of the group of staring children where Peace Maythorne’s room was, Gypsy resorted to her friend, the red-faced woman, who directed her to a door upon the second story.
It was closed, and Gypsy knocked.
“Come in,” said a quiet voice. Gypsy went in, wondering why Peace Maythorne did not get up and open the door, and if she did not know it was more polite. She stopped short, as she entered the room, and wondered no longer.
It was a plain, bare room, but neat enough, and not unpleasant nor unhomelike, because of the great flood of morning sunlight that fell in and touched everything to golden warmth. It touched most brightly, and lingered longest, on a low bed drawn up between the windows. A girl lay there, with a pale face turned over on the pillows, and weak, thin hands, folded on the counterpane. She might, from her size, have been about sixteen years of age; but her face was like the face of a woman long grown old. The clothing of the bed partially concealed her shoulders, which were cruelly rounded and bent.
So Peace Maythorne was a cripple.
Gypsy recovered from her astonishment with a little start, and said, blushing, for fear she had been rude,—