e was very still now. Since the first few days she seldom cried; or if
she did, it was when she was away alone in the dark, with no one to see
her. She had grown strangely silent, strangely gentle and thoughtful for
Joy. Sorrow was doing for her what it does for so many older and better;
and in her frightened, childish way, Joy was suffering all that she
could suffer.

Perhaps only Gypsy knew just how much it was. The two girls had been
drawn very near to each other these past few weeks. It seemed to Gypsy
as if the grief were almost her own, she felt so sorry for Joy; she had
grown very gentle to her, very patient with her, very thoughtful for her
comfort. They were little ways in which she could show this, but these
little ways are better than any words. When she left her own merry play
with the girls to hunt up Joy sitting somewhere alone and miserable, and
coax her out into the sunlight, or sit beside her and tell funny stories
till the smiles came wandering back against their will to Joy's pale
face; when she slid her strawberry tarts into Joy's desk at recess, or
stole upstairs after her with a handful of peppermints bought with her
own little weekly allowance, or threw her arms around her so each night
with a single, silent kiss, or came up sometimes in the dark and cried
with her, without saying a word, Joy was not unmindful nor ungrateful.
She noticed it all, everything; out of her grief she thanked her with
all her heart, and treasured up in her memory to love for all her life
the Gypsy of these sad days.

They were in the parlor together on this Sunday night, as I said,--all
except Mr. Breynton, who had been for several days in Boston, settling
his brother's affairs, and making arrangements to sell the house for
Joy; it was her house now, that handsome place in Beacon Street, and
that seemed so strange,--strange to Joy most of all.

They were grouped around the room in the fading western light, Gypsy and
Tom together by the window, Winnie perched demurely on the piano-stool,
and Joy on the cricket at Mrs. Breynton's feet. The faint light was
touching her face, and her mournful dress with its heavy crape
trimmings,--there were no white chenille and silver brooches now; Joy
had laid these things aside of her own wish. It is a very small matter,
to be sure, this mourning; but in Joy's case it mirrored her real grief
very completely. The something which she had _not_ felt when her mother
died, she felt now, to