"One faint gaslight was burning, and in the dimness I saw that the sheet was turned down from the face, and a poor little quivering figure was crouched beside it on the bed. It was Joy. She was sobbing as if her heart would break, and such sobs—it would have made you cry to hear them, Gypsy. She didn't hear me come in, and she began to talk to the dead face as if it could hear her. Do you want to know what she said?"
Gypsy was looking very hard the other way. She nodded, but did not speak, gulping down something in her throat.
"This was what she said—softly, in Joy's frightened way, you know: 'You're all I had anyway,' said she. 'All the other girls have got mothers, and now I won't ever have any, any more. I did used to bother you and be cross about my practising, and not do as you told me, and I wish I hadn't, and—
"Oh—hum, look here—mother," interrupted Gypsy, jumping up and winking very fast, "isn't there a train up from Boston early Monday morning? She might come in that, you know."
Mrs. Breynton smiled.
"Then she may come, may she?"
"I rather think she may," said Gypsy, with an emphasis. "I'll write her a letter and tell her so."
"That will be a good plan, Gypsy. But you are quite sure? I don't want you to decide this matter in too much of a hurry."
"She'll sleep in the front room, of course?" suggested Gypsy.
"No; if she comes, she must sleep with you. With our family and only one servant, I could hardly keep up the extra work that would cause for six months or a year."