nging and shouting as no one had made in the house since Gypsy
went away, and hurried out into the front entry to see what had happened.
Tom ran in from the garden, and Winnie slid down on the banisters, and Mr.
Breynton was just coming up the yard, and Patty put her head in at the
entry door, wiping her hands on her apron, and everybody must be kissed
all round, and for a few minutes there was such a bustle, that Gypsy could
hardly hear herself speak.

"What has brought you home so soon?" asked her mother, then. "We didn't
look for you for a week yet."

"Oh, I hate Boston!" cried Gypsy, pulling off her things. "I didn't like
anything but the Museum and Bunker Hill; and Joy wore silk dresses, and
wouldn't let me look in the shop-windows, 'n I took a poor, little
beggar-girl home, and you can't run round any, and Aunt Miranda told me
she'd tell you, and I hate it, and she's just as cross as a bear!"

"Your aunt cross!" said her mother, who could make neither beginning nor
end of Gypsy's excited story.

"I guess she is," said Gypsy, with an emphasis. "Oh, I _am_ so glad to get
home. Where's the kitty, and how's Peace Maythorne and everybody, and
Winnie has a new jacket, hasn't he?"

Mr. and Mrs. Breynton exchanged glances. They saw that something was
wrong; but wisely considered that that time was not the one for making any
inquiries into the matter. Mrs. Breynton thought, also, that if Gypsy had
been guilty of ill-temper or rudeness, she would confess it herself. She
was right; for as soon as dinner was over, Gypsy called her away alone,
and told her all the story. They were shut up together a long time, and
when Gypsy came out her eyes were red with crying.

All that Mrs. Breynton said does not matter here; but Gypsy is not likely
soon to forget it. A few words spoken, just as the conversation ended,
became golden mottoes that helped her over many rough places in her life.

"It is all the old trouble, Gypsy,--you 'didn't think.' A little
self-control, a moment's quiet thought, would have saved all this."

"Oh, I know it!" sobbed Gypsy. "That's what always ails me. I'm always
doing things, and always sorry for them. I mean to do right, and I cannot
remember. What shall I do with myself, mother?"

"Gypsy," said her mother, very soberly, "this will never do. You _can_
think. And Gypsy, my child, in every one of these little thoughtless words
and acts God sees a _sin_."

"A sin when you didn't think?" exclaimed Gy