Gypsy Breynton Part 13

"I've brought you some peas," she said, meekly.

"Oh!" said the old woman, relenting a little, "you have, have you? Well, I'm obleeged to you, and you can set 'em in the cupboard."

Gypsy emptied her peas into a yellow bowl which she found in the cupboard, and then asked,--

"Can I do anything for you?"

"I'm terrible thirsty!" said Mrs. Littlejohn, with a long groan. "There's some water in that air pail."

Gypsy went into the corner where the pail stood, and filled the mug with water; then, not being able to think of anything more to say, she concluded to go.

"Good mornin'clock," said Mrs. Littlejohn, in a forgiving tone; "I hope you'll come agin."

Gypsy secretly thought it was doubtful if she ever did. Her charity, like that of most young people of her age and experience, was not of the sort calculated to survive under difficulties, or to deal successfully with shrewish old women.

After inquiring in vain of the group of staring children where Peace Maythorne's room was, Gypsy resorted to her friend, the red-faced woman, who directed her to a door upon the second story.

It was closed, and Gypsy knocked.

"Come in," said a quiet voice. Gypsy went in, wondering why Peace Maythorne did not get up and open the door, and if she did not know it was more polite. She stopped short, as she entered the room, and wondered no longer.

It was a plain, bare room, but neat enough, and not unpleasant nor unhomelike, because of the great flood of morning sunlight that fell in and touched everything to golden warmth. It touched most brightly, and lingered longest, on a low bed drawn up between the windows. A girl lay there, with a pale face turned over on the pillows, and weak, thin hands, folded on the counterpane. She might, from her size, have been about sixteen years of age; but her face was like the face of a woman long grown old. The clothing of the bed partially concealed her shoulders, which were cruelly rounded and bent.

So Peace Maythorne was a cripple.

Gypsy recovered from her astonishment with a little start, and said, blushing, for fear she had been rude,--

"Good morning. I'm Gypsy Breynton. Mother sent me down with a magazine."

"I am glad to see you," said Peace Maythorne, smiling. "Won't you sit down?"

Gypsy took a chair by the bed, thinking how pleasant the old, pale face, was, after all, and how kindly and happy the smile.

"Your mother is very kind," said Peace; "she is always doing something for me. She has given me a great deal to read."

"Do you like to read?--I don't," said Gypsy.

"Why, yes!" said Peace, opening her eyes wide; "I thought everybody liked to read. Besides I can't do anything else, you know."

"Nothing at all?" asked Gypsy.

"Only sometimes, when the pain isn't very bad, I try to help aunt about her sewing, I can't do much."

"Oh, you live with your aunt?" said Gypsy.

"Yes. She takes in sewing. She's out, just now."

"Does your back pain you a great deal?" asked Gypsy.

"Oh, yes; all the time. But, then, I get used to it, you know," said Peace.

"_All the time!_--oh, I am so sorry!" said Gypsy, drawing a long breath.

"Oh, it might be worse," said Peace, smiling.

"I've only lain here three years. Some people can't move for forty. The doctor says I sha'n't live so long as that."

Gypsy looked at the low bed, the narrow room, the pallid face and shrunken body cramped there, moveless, on the pillows. Three years! Three years to lie through summer suns and winter snows, while all the world was out at play, and happy!

"Well," said Gypsy, as the most appropriate comment suggesting itself; "you _are_ rather different from Mrs. Littlejohn!"

Peace smiled. There was something rare about Peace Maythorne's smile.

"Poor Mrs. Littlejohn! You see, she isn't used to being sick, and I am; that makes the difference."

"Oh, I forgot!" said Gypsy, abruptly, "mother said I was to ask if those powders she left you put you to sleep."

"Nicely. They're better than anything the doctor gave me; everything your mother does seems to be the best sort, somehow. She can't touch your hand, or smooth your pillow, without doing it differently from other people."

"That's so!" said Gypsy, emphatically. "There isn't anybody else like her.

Do you lie awake very often?"

Peace answered in the two quiet words that were on her lips so often, in the quiet voice that never complained,--

"Oh, yes."

There was a little silence. Gypsy was watching Peace. Peace had her eyes turned away from her visitor, but she was conscious of every quick, nervous breath Gypsy drew, and every impatient little flutter of her hands.

The two girls were studying each other. Gypsy's investigations, whatever they were, seemed to be very pleasant, for she started at last with a bit of a sigh, and announced the result of them in the characteristic words,--

"I like you!"

To her surprise, Peace just turned up her eyes and turned them away, and the eyes were full of tears. After a moment,--

"Thank you. I don't see many people so young--except the children. I tell them stories sometimes."

"But you won't like me," said Gypsy.

"I rather think I shall."

"No you won't," said Gypsy, shaking her head decidedly; "not a bit. I know you won't. I'm silly,--well, I'll tell you what I am by-and-by. First, I want to hear all about you,--everything, I mean," she added, with a quick delicacy, of which, for "blundering Gypsy," she had a great deal,--"everything that you care to tell me."

"Why, I've nothing to tell," said Peace, smiling, "cooped up here all the time; it's all the same."

"That's just what I want to hear about. About the being cooped up. I don't see _how you bear it_!" said Gypsy, impetuously.

Peace smiled again. Gypsy had a fancy that the smile had stolen one of the sunbeams that lay in such golden, flickering waves, upon the bed.

Too much self-depreciation is often a sign of the extremest vanity. Peace had nothing of this. Seeing that Gypsy was in earnest in her wish to hear her story, she quietly began it without further parley. It was very simple, and quickly told.