nt's eyes, that she was ashamed of
her, and much displeased. She locked herself into her own room, feeling
very miserable, and would not have gone down stairs again if she had not
been sent for, after the company had returned to the parlors.

She did not dare to disobey, so she went, and sat down in a corner by the
piano, where she hoped she should be out of sight.

A pleasant-faced lady, sitting near, turned, and said,--

"Don't you play, my dear?"

"A little," said Gypsy, wishing she could have truthfully said no.

"I wish you would play for me," said the lady.

"Oh, I shouldn't like to," said Gypsy, shrinking; "I don't know anything
but Scotch airs."

"That is just what I like," said the lady. "Mrs. Breynton, can't you
persuade your niece to play a little for me?"

"Certainly, Gypsy," said her aunt, with a look which plainly said, "Don't
think of it."

Gypsy's mother had taught her that it was both disobliging and affected to
refuse to play when she was asked, no matter how simple her music might
be. So, not knowing how to refuse, and wishing the floor would open and
swallow her up, she went to the piano, and played two sweet Scotch airs.
She played them well for a girl of her age, and the lady thanked her, and
seemed to enjoy them. But that night, just as she was going to bed, she
accidentally overheard her aunt saying to Joy,--

"It was very stupid and forward in her. I tried to make her understand,
but I couldn't--those little songs, too! Why, with all your practice, and
such teachers as you have had, I wouldn't think of letting you play before
anybody at your age."

Gypsy cried herself to sleep that night.

Just a week from the day that she came to Boston, Gypsy and Joy were out
shopping in Summer Street. They had just come out of Hovey's, when they
met a ragged child, not more than three years old, crying as if its heart
were broken.

"Oh, dear!" cried Gypsy; "see that poor little girl! I'm going to see
what's the matter."

"Don't!" said Joy, horrified; "come along! Nobody stops to speak to
beggars in Boston; what _are_ you doing?"

For Gypsy had stopped and taken the child's two dirty little fists down
from her eyes, and looked down into the tear-stained and mud-stained face
to see what was the matter.

"I--I don't know where nobody is," sobbed the child.

"Have you lost your way? Where do you live?" asked Gypsy, with great,
pitying eyes. Gypsy could never bear to see anybody cry; and then