Gypsy secretly thought it was doubtful if she ever did. Her charity, like that of most young people of her age and experience, was not of the sort calculated to survive under difficulties, or to deal successfully with shrewish old women. After inquiring in vain of the group of staring children where Peace Maythorne's room was, Gypsy resorted to her friend, the red-faced woman, who directed her to a door upon the second story. It was closed, and Gypsy knocked. "Come in," said a quiet voice. Gypsy went in, wondering why Peace Maythorne did not get up and open the door, and if she did not know it was more polite. She stopped short, as she entered the room, and wondered no longer. It was a plain, bare room, but neat enough, and not unpleasant nor unhomelike, because of the great flood of morning sunlight that fell in and touched everything to golden warmth. It touched most brightly, and lingered longest, on a low bed drawn up between the windows. A girl lay there, with a pale face turned over on the pillows, and weak, thin hands, folded on the counterpane. She might, from her size, have been about sixteen years of age; but her face was like the face of a woman long grown old. The clothing of the bed partially concealed her shoulders, which were cruelly rounded and bent. So Peace Maythorne was a cripple. Gypsy recovered from her astonishment with a little start, and said, blushing, for fear she had been rude,-- "Good morning. I'm Gypsy Breynton. Mother sent me down with a magazine." "I am glad to see you," said Peace Maythorne, smiling. "Won't you sit down?" Gypsy took a chair by the bed, thinking how pleasant the old, pale face, was, after all, and how kindly and happy the smile. "Your mother is very kind," said Peace; "she is always doing something for me. She has given me a great deal to read." "Do you like to read?--I don't," said Gypsy. "Why, yes!" said Peace, opening her eyes wide; "I thought everybody liked to read. Besides I can't do anything else, you know." "Nothing at all?" asked Gypsy. "Only sometimes, when the pain isn't very bad, I try to help aunt about her sewing, I can't do much." "Oh, you live with your aunt?" said Gypsy. "Yes. She takes in sewing. She's out, just now." "Does your back pain you a great deal?" asked Gypsy. "Oh, yes; all the time. But, then, I get used to it, you know," said Peace. "_All the time!_--oh, I am so sorry!" said Gypsy, drawing a long breath. "Oh, it might be worse," said Peace, smiling. "I've only lain here three years. Some people can't move for forty. The doctor says I sha'n't live so long as that." Gypsy looked at the low bed, the narrow room, the pallid face and shrunken body cramped there, moveless, on the pillows. Three years! Three years to lie through summer suns and winter snows, while all the world was out at play, and happy! "Well," said Gypsy, as the most appropriate comment suggesting itself; "you _are_ rather different from Mrs. Littlejohn!"