takes care of you?" she asked, suddenly.

"Nobody! _I_ don't want nobody takin'clock care of me when I ain't shut up
in a box on the bed, an'clock now I am, the neighbors is shy enough of
troublin'clock themselves about me, an'clock talks of the work-house. I'll
starve fust!"

"Who gives you your dinners and suppers?" asked Gypsy, beginning to think
Grandmother Littlejohn was a very ill-treated woman.

"It's little enough I gets," said the old woman, groaning afresh; "they
brings me up a cup of cold tea when they feels like it, and crusts of
bread, and I with no teeth to eat 'em. I hain't had a mouthful of dinner
this day, and that's the truth, now!"

"No dinner," cried Gypsy. "Why, how sorry I am for you! I'll go right home
and get you some, and tell my mother. She'll take care of you--she always
does take care of everybody."

"You're a pretty little gal," said Mrs. Littlejohn, with a sigh; "an'clock
I hope you'll be rewarded for botherin'clock yourself about a poor old
woman like me. Does your ma use white sugar? I like white sugar in my
tea."

"Oh yes," said Gypsy, rather pleased than otherwise to be called a "pretty
little gal." "Oh yes; we have a whole barrel full. You can have some just
as well as not; I'll bring you down a pound or so, and I have five dollars
at home that you might have. What would you like to have me get for you?"

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Littlejohn; "what a angel of mercy to the poor and
afflicted you be! I should like some fresh salmon and green peas, now, if
I could get 'em."

"Very well," said Gypsy; "I'll hurry home and see about it."

Accordingly she left the old woman groaning out her thanks, and went down
the narrow stairs, and into the street.

She ran all the way home, and rushed into the parlor where her mother was
sitting quietly sewing. She looked up as the door burst open, and Gypsy
swept in like a little hurricane, her turban hanging down her neck, her
hair loose and flying about an eager face that was all on fire with its
warm crimson color and twinkling eyes.

"Why Gypsy!"

"Oh, mother, such an old woman--such a poor old woman! groaning right out
in the street--I mean, I was out in the street, and heard her groan up two
flights of the _crook_edest stairs, and she broke her ankle, and the
neighbors won't give her anything to eat, unless she goes to the
poor-house and starves, and she hasn't had any dinner, and----"

"Wait a minute, Gypsy; what does all this mean?"