"Six months or a year! In my room!"
Gypsy walked back and forth across the room two or three times, her merry forehead all wrinkled into a knot.
"Well," at last, "I've said it, and I'll stick to it, and I'll try to make her have a good time, anyway."
"Come here, Gypsy."
Gypsy came, and one of those rare, soft kisses—very different from the ordinary, everyday kisses—that her mother gave her when she hadn't just the words to say how pleased she was, fell on her forehead, and smoothed out the knot before you could say "Jack Robinson."
That very afternoon Gypsy wrote her note to Joy:
"Dear Joy:
"I'm real sorry your mother died. You'd better come right up here next week, and we'll go chestnutting over by Mr. Jonathan Jones's. I tell you it's splendid climbing up. If you're very careful, you needn't tear your dress very badly. Then there's the raft, and you might play baseball, too. I'll teach you.
"You see if you don't have a nice time. I can't think of anything more to say.
"Your affectionate cousin,
"Gypsy."