Joy laid down her pen suddenly. She heard a strange noise in her uncle's room where he and Gypsy were sitting. It was a sort of cry,—a low, smothered cry, as of some one in grief or pain. She shut up her portfolio and hurried in. Mr. Breynton held a paper in his hand. Gypsy was looking over his shoulder, and her face was very pale.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
Mr. Breynton turned away his face. Gypsy broke out crying.
"Why, what is the matter?" said Joy, looking alarmed.
"Joy, my poor child—" began her uncle. But Gypsy sprang forward suddenly, and threw her arms around Joy's neck.
"Oh, Joy, Joy,—your father!"
"Let me see that paper!" Joy caught it before they could stop her, opened it, read it,—dropped it slowly. It was a telegram from Yorkbury:—
"Boston papers say Joy's father died in France two weeks ago."