psy.

"You must learn to think, Gypsy; and He will teach you."

Her mother kissed her many times, and Gypsy clung to her neck, and was
very still. Whatever thoughts she had just then, she never told them to
any one.

The afternoon passed away like a merry dream. Gypsy was so happy that she
had had the talk with her mother; so glad to be kissed and forgiven and
loved and helped; to find every one so pleased to see her back, and home
so dear, and the mountains so blue and beautiful, and the sunlight so
bright, that she scarcely knew whether she were asleep or awake. She must
hunt up the kitten, and feed the chickens, and take a peep at the cow, and
stroke old Billy in his stall; she must see how many sweet peas were left
on the vines, and climb out on the shed-roof that had been freshly
shingled since she was gone, and run down to the Kleiner Berg, and over to
see Sarah Rowe. She must know just what Tom had been doing this
interminable week, just how many buttons Winnie had lost off from his
jacket, and what kind of pies Patty had baked for dinner. She must kiss
her mother twenty times an hour, and pull her father's whiskers, and ride
Winnie on her shoulder. Best of all, perhaps, it was to run down to Peace
Maythorne's, and find the sunlight golden in the quiet room, and the pale
face smiling on the pillow; to hear the gentle voice, when the door
opened, say, "Oh, Gypsy!" in such a way,--as no other voice ever said it;
and then to sit down and lay her head upon the pillow by Peace, and tell
her all that had happened.

"Well," said Peace, smiling, "I think you have learned a good deal for one
week, and I guess you will never _un_learn it."

"I guess you'll be very sorry you went to Bosting," remarked Winnie, in an
oracular manner, that night, when they were all together in their old
places in the sitting-room. "The Meddlesome Quinine Club had a concert
here last Wednesday, and we had preserved seats. What do you think of
that?"

This is a copy of the letter that found its way to Beacon Street a few
days after:--

"My dear Uncle and Aunt Miranda:

"I am so sorry I don't know what to do. I was so tired sitting still, and
going to dinner-parties, and then auntie was displeased about the
beggar-girl (I took her home, and her mother was just as glad as she could
be, and so poor!) and so I felt angry and homesick, and I know I oughtn't
to have gone to such a place without asking; but I didn't think; and then
I came hom