"But what does she groan for?" insisted Gypsy, her curiosity nowise diminished to see a person who could be "always groanin'clock," through not only one, but many, of such golden summer days. "Oh, I s'pose she's got reason enough, for the matter of that," said the woman, carelessly; "she's broke a bone,--though she do make a terrible fuss over it, and very onobligin'clock it is to the neighbors as has the lookin'clock after of her." "Broken a bone! Poor thing, I'm going right up to see her!" said Gypsy, whose compassion was rising fast. "Good luck to you!" said the woman, with a laugh Gypsy did not like very much. It only strengthened her resolution, however, and she ran up the narrow stairs scattering the children right and left. Several other untidy-looking women opened doors and peered out at her as she went by; but no one else spoke to her. Guided by the sound of the groans, which came at regular intervals like long breaths, she went up a second flight of stairs, more narrow and more dark than the first, and turned into a little low room, the door of which stood open. "Who's there!" called a fretful voice from inside. "I," said Gypsy; "may I come in?" "I don't know who you be," said the voice, "but you may come 'long ef you want to." Gypsy accepted the somewhat dubious invitation. The room was in sad disorder, and very dusty. An old yellow cat sat blinking at a sunbeam, and an old, yellow, wizened woman lay upon the bed. Her forehead was all drawn and knotted with pain, and her mouth looked just like her voice--fretful and sharp. She turned her head slowly, as Gypsy entered, but otherwise she did not alter her position; as if it were one which she could not change without pain. "Good afternoon," said Gypsy, feeling a little embarrassed, and not knowing exactly what to say, now she was up there. "Good arternoon," said Grandmother Littlejohn, with a groan. "I heard you groan out in the street," said Gypsy, rushing to the point at once; "I came up to see what was the matter." "Matter?" said the old woman sharply, "I fell down stairs and broke my ankle, that's the matter, an'clock I wonder the whole town hain't heerd me holler,--I can't sleep day nor night with the pain, an'clock it's matter enough, I think." "I'm real sorry," said Gypsy. Mrs. Littlejohn broke into a fresh spasm of groaning at this, and seemed to be in such suffering, that it made Gypsy turn pale to hear her. "Haven't you had a doctor?" she asked, compassionately. "Laws yes," said the old woman. "Had a doctor! I guess I have, a young fellar who said he was representative from somewhere from Medical Profession, seems to me it war, but I never heerd on't, wharever it is, an'clock he with his whiskers only half growed, an'clock puttin'clock of my foot into a wooden box, an'clock murderin'clock of me--I gave him a piece of my mind, and he hain't come nigh me since, and I won't have him agin noways." "But they always splinter broken limbs," said Gypsy.