"No, it's your week. Besides, you made me do it twice for you your last turn, and I shan't touch it. Besides, it is morning."
Joy rose with a groan, and began to fumble for the matches. All at once Gypsy heard a very fervent exclamation.
"What's the matter?"
"The old thing's tipped over—every single, solitary match!"
Gypsy began to laugh.
"It's nothing to laugh at," chattered Joy; "I'm frozen almost to death, and this horrid old fire won't do a thing but smoke."
Gypsy, curled up in the warm bed, smothered her laugh as best she could, to see Joy crouched shivering before the stove-door, blowing away frantically at the fire, her cheeks puffed out, her hands blue as indigo.
"There!" said Joy, at last; "I shan't work any more over it. It may go out if it wants to, and if it don't it needn't."
She came back to bed, and the fire muttered and sputtered a while, and died out, and shot up again, and at last made up its mind to burn, and burned like a small volcano.
"What a noise that fire makes! I hope it won't wake up mother. Joy, don't it strike you as rather funny it doesn't grow light faster?"