“I have told you a great many times that it is never safe for you to touch my gun,” said Tom, gravely. He felt that Gypsy’s carelessness might have brought about too terrible consequences, both to herself and to him, to be passed by lightly; and he had an idea that, as long as her mother was not there to tell her so, he must.
But Gypsy dropped her head, and looked so humble and wretched, that he had not the heart to say any more.
Gypsy was sure all the pleasure of her camping-out was utterly spoiled; but there was a bright sun the next morning, and Tom was so kind and pleasant, and the birds were singing, and the world didn’t look at all as if she had nearly killed her brother twelve hours before, so she found she was laughing in spite of herself, and two very happy days passed after that. Mr. Hallam made a rule that he or Tom should keep the girls constantly in sight, and that, during the time spent in excursions which they could not join, they should remain in Mr. Fisher’s house. He said it was too wild a place for them to be alone in for any length of time, and he was sorry he left them before.
Gypsy did not resent this strict tutelage. She was very humble and obedient and careful as long as they stayed upon the mountain. Those few moments, when she clung sobbing to Tom’s neck, were a lesson to her. She will not forget them as long as she lives.
At the end of the fourth day, just at supper time, a dark cloud sailed over the sky, and a faint wind blew from the east.
“I wonder if it’s going to rain,” said Mr. Hallam. They all looked up. Gypsy said nothing; in her secret heart, she hoped it would.
“What about sending the girls to Mrs. Fisher’s?” asked Tom, when they were washing the dishes.
“Oh, no, no, it won’t rain, I know—let us stay, Mr. Hallam, please. Why, I should feel like a deserter if I went off!” pleaded Gypsy.
The dark cloud seemed to have passed away, and the wind was still. After thinking a while, Mr. Hallam decided to let them stay.
In the middle of the night, Gypsy was awakened by a great noise. The wind was blowing a miniature hurricane through the trees, and the rain was falling in torrents. She could hear it spatter on the canvas roof, and drop from the poles, and gurgle in a stream through the ditch. She could hear, too, the loud, angry murmur of the trout brook and the splashing of hundreds of rivulets that dashed down the slope and over the gorge into it.