nd 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