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.

"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 o