orrow, and it'll be as good as new."

[Illustration]

"The old dragon!" exclaimed Gypsy, under her breath, as the girls went
out. "She is a dragon, nothing more nor less--a dragon that doesn't
scold particularly, but a dragon that _looks_. I'd rather be scolded to
death than looked at and looked at every mouthful I eat. I don't wonder
Peace doesn't eat. She'll starve to death some day."

"But why don't you send her down things?" asked Joy. Gypsy shook her
head.

"You don't understand Peace. She wouldn't like it. Mother does send her
a quantity of books and flowers and things, and dinner just as often as
she can without making Peace feel badly. But Peace wouldn't like 'em
every day."

"She's real different from what I thought," said Joy--"real. What
pretty eyes she has. I didn't seem to remember she was poor, a bit."

"What made you come down?"

"'Cause," said Joy.

This excellent reason was all that was ever to be had out of her. But
that first time was by no means the last she went to Peace Maythorne's
room.

The girls were in good spirits that night, well pleased with each other,
themselves, and everybody else, as is usually the case when one is just
over a fit of ill-temper. When they were alone in bed, Gypsy told Joy
about the verse of which Peace spoke. Joy listened in silence.

Awhile after, Gypsy woke from a dream, and saw a light burning on the
table. Joy was sitting up in her white night-dress, turning the leaves
of a book as if she were hunting for something.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STORY OF A NIGHT

November, with its bright, bleak skies, sere leaves tossing, sad winds
sobbing, and rains that wept for days and nights together, on dead
flowers and dying grasses, moaned itself away at last, and December
swept into its place with a good rousing snow-storm, merry sleigh-bells,
and bright promises of coming Christmas. The girls coasted and skated,
and made snow-men and snowballs and snow-forts. Joy learned to slide
down a moderate hill at a mild rate without screaming, and to get along
somehow on her skates alone--for the very good reason that Tom wouldn't
help her. Gypsy initiated her into the mysteries of "cannon-firing" from
the great icy forts, and taught her how to roll the huge balls of snow.
Altogether they had a very good time. Not as good as they might have
had, by any means; the old rubs and jars were there still, though of
late they had been somewhat softened. Partly on account of th