Gypsy looked radiant—very much, in fact, like a little sun dropped down from the sky, or a jewel all ablaze.
Some mothers would have reproved her for the use of the china; some who had not quite the heart to reprove would have said they were sorry she had taken it out. Mrs. Breynton would rather have had her handsome plates broken to atoms than to chill, by so much as a look, the glow of the child's face just then.
There was decidedly more talking than eating done at supper, and they lingered long at the table, in the pleasant firelight and lamplight.
"It seems exactly like the resurrection day for all the world," said Gypsy.
"The resurrection day?"
"Why, yes. When you went off I kept thinking everybody was dead and buried, all that morning, and it was real horrid—Oh, you don't know!"
"Gypsy," said Mrs. Breynton, a while after supper, when Winnie had gone to bed, and Tom and his father were casting accounts by the fire, "I want to see you a few minutes." Gypsy, wondering, followed her into the parlor. Mrs. Breynton shut the door, and they sat down together on the sofa.
"I want to have a talk with you, Gypsy, about something that we'd better talk over alone."