Gypsy Breynton Part 12

It was nearly dark when Mrs. Breynton came up from the village, with her pleasant smile, and her little basket that half Yorkbury knew so well by sight, for the biscuit and the jellies, the blanc-mange, and the dried beef and the cookies, that it brought to so many sick-beds. Gypsy had been watching for her impatiently, and ran down to the gate to meet her.

"Well, did you find her?"

"Oh, yes."

"What do you think of her?" asked Gypsy, a little puzzled by her mother's expression.

"She is a good deal of a scold, and something of a sufferer," said Mrs.

Breynton. Gypsy's face fell, and they walked up to the house in silence.

"Then you're not going to do anything for her?" asked Gypsy, at length, in a disappointed tone.

"Oh, yes. She needs help. She can't be moved to the poor-house now, and, besides, is likely to get well before long, if she is properly taken care of. I gave her her supper, and have arranged with one or two of the ladies to send her meals for a few days, till we see how she is, and what had better be done. I take care of her to-morrow, and Mrs. Rowe takes her the next day."

"Good!" said Gypsy, brightening; "and I may take her down the things, mayn't I, mother?"

"If you want to."

Gypsy went to bed as happy as a queen.

The next morning she rose early, to be sure to be in time to take Mrs.

Littlejohn's breakfast; and was disappointed enough, when her mother thought it best she should wait till she had eaten her own. However, on the strength of the remembrance of her mother's tried and proved wisdom, on certain other little occasions, she submitted with a good grace.

She carried Mrs. Littlejohn a very good breakfast of griddle-cakes and fish-b.a.l.l.s and sweet white bread, and was somewhat taken aback to find that the old woman received it rather curtly, and asked after the salmon.

It was very warm at noon. When she carried the dinner, the walk was long and wearisome, and Mrs. Littlejohn neglected to call her an angel of mercy, and it must be confessed Gypsy's enthusiasm diminished perceptibly.

That evening Mr. and Mrs. Breynton were out to tea, and Tom was off fishing. Mrs. Breynton left Mrs. Littlejohn's supper in a basket on the shelf, and told Gypsy where it was. Gypsy had been having a great frolic in the fresh hay with Sarah Rowe, and came in late. No one but Winnie was there. She ate her supper in a great hurry, and went out again. Patty saw her from the window, and concluded she had gone to Mrs. Littlejohn's.

That night, about eleven o'clock, some one knocked at Mrs. Breynton's door, and woke her up.

"Who is it?" she called.

"Oh, mother Breynton!" said a doleful voice; "what _do_ you suppose I've done now?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Mrs. Breynton, with a resigned sigh.

"I hope she hasn't been walking in her sleep again," said Mr. Breynton, nervously.

"Forgotten Mrs. Littlejohn's supper," said the doleful voice through the key-hole.

"Why, Gypsy!"

"I know it," said Gypsy, humbly. "Couldn't I dress and run down?"

"Why, no indeed! it can't be helped now. Run back to bed."

"Just like Gypsy, for all the world!" said Tom, the next morning. "Always so quick and generous, and sorry for people, and ready to do, and you can depend on her just about as much as you could on a brisk west wind!"

CHAPTER VIII

PEACE MAYTHORNE

"After you have seen Mrs. Littlejohn, and explained why she went supperless last night," said Mrs. Breynton, "I want you to do an errand for me."

"What is it?" asked Gypsy, pleasantly. She felt very humble, and much ashamed, this morning, and anxious to make herself useful.

"I want you to find out where Peace Maythorne's room is,--it is in the same house,--and carry her this, with my love."

Mrs. Breynton took up a copy of "Harper's Magazine," and handed it to Gypsy.

"Tell her I have turned the leaf down at some articles I think will interest her, and ask her if the powder I left her put her to sleep."

"Who is Peace Maythorne?" asked Gypsy, wondering. "Is she poor?"

"Yes."

"How funny to send her a 'Harper's,'" said Gypsy. "Why don't you give her some money, or something?"

"Some things are worth more than money to some people," said Mrs.

Breynton, smiling.

"Why! then you had been into that house before I found Mrs. Littlejohn?"

said Gypsy, as the thought first struck her.

"Oh, yes; many times."

Gypsy started off, with the Magazine under her arm, wondering if there were a house in town, filled with these wretched poor, in which her mother was not known as a friend.

Her heart sank a little as she climbed the dark stairs to Mrs.

Littlejohn's room. She had begged of her mother a tiny pailful of green peas, with which she hoped to pacify the old woman, but she was somewhat in dread of hearing her talk, and ashamed to confess her own neglect.

Mrs. Littlejohn was eating the very nice breakfast which Mrs. Rowe had sent over, and groaning dolefully over it, as Gypsy entered.

"Good morning," said Gypsy.

"Good morning," said Mrs. Littlejohn, severely.

"I went out to play in the hay with Sarah Rowe, and forgot all about your supper last night, and I'm just as sorry as I can be," said Gypsy, coming to the point frankly, and without any attempt to excuse herself.

"Oh, of course!" said Mrs. Littlejohn, in the tone of a martyr. "It's all I expect. I'm a poor lone widdy with a bone broke, and I'm used to bein'clock forgot. Little gals that has everything they want, and five dollars besides, and promises me salmon and such, couldn't be expected to remember the sufferin'clock and afflicted,--of course not."

It was not an easy nor a pleasant thing to apologize to a person to whom she had played the charitable lady the day before; and Mrs. Littlejohn's manner of receiving the explanation certainly made it no easier. But Gypsy, as the saying goes, "swallowed her pride," and felt that she deserved it.