"What do I care about you or your ghost! Come along. 'The unrighteous shall not live out half their days,' as Solomon says; therefore it's according to Scripture, and no fault of mine if you don't live long."
"Solomon was never locked up in a garret," said Gipsy, thrusting her knuckles in her eyes and beginning to sob, "and he don't know anything about it. It's real hateful of you to lock me up—now! But it's just like you, you always were an ugly old wretch every way." Sob, sob, sob.
"That's right, talk away! You can talk and scold as much as you like to the four bare walls presently," said the squire, dragging her along.
"You're a hateful old monster! I wish you were far enough—I just do! and I don't care if I'm taken up for defamation of character—so, there! Boo, hoo—a hoo—a hoo," sobbed, and wept, and scolded Gipsy, as the squire, inwardly chuckling, led her to her place of captivity.
They reached it at length; a large empty room without a single article of furniture, even without a chair. It was quite dark, too, for the windows were both nailed up, and the room was situated in the remotest portion of the building, where, let poor Gipsy cry and scream as she pleased, she could not be heard.
On entering her prison, Gipsy ceased her sobs for a moment to glance around, and her blank look of dismay at the aspect of her prison, threw the squire into a fit of laughter.
"So," he chuckled, "you're caught at last. Now, here you may stay till night, and I hope by that time I'll have taken a little of the mischief out of you."
"And I'll have nothing to pass the time," wept Gipsy. "Mayn't I go down stairs and get a book?"
"Ha! ha! ha! No. I rather think you mayn't. Perhaps I may bring you up one by and by," said the squire, never stopping to think how Gipsy was to read in the dark.
"Look up there on that shelf, I can't reach; there's one, I think," said Gipsy, whose keen eye had caught sight of an old newspaper lying on the spot indicated.