"Who cares?" said Gypsy, with a merry laugh, tipping all the wet, earthy moss out on her lap, as she spoke. "See! isn't there a quantity? I like moss 'cause it fills up. Violets are pretty enough, only you _do_ have to pick 'em one at a time. Innocence comes up by the handful,--only mine's most all roots." "I don't know what's going to become of you," said Tom, drawing down the corner of his mouth. "Neither do I," said Gypsy, demurely; "I wish I did." "You won't learn to apply yourself to anything," persisted Tom. "Work or play, there's no system to you. You're like a----" Tom paused for a simile--"Well, like a toad that's always on the jump." "Ow!" said Gypsy, with a little scream, "there's a horrid old snail crawled out my moss!" and over went moss, flowers, basket, and all, down the roof and upon the stone steps below. "There! Good enough for it!" Tom coughed and whittled. Gypsy pulled her net out of her basket, and put up her hair. There was a little silence. Nothing had yet been said about the image in Gypsy's room, and both were determined not to be the first to speak of it. Gypsy could have patience enough where a joke was in question, and as is very apt to be the case, the boy found himself outwitted. For not a word said Gypsy of the matter, and half an hour passed and the supper-bell rang. "There!" said Gypsy, jumping up, "I do declare if it isn't supper, and I've got these burs to get off and my dress to mend and my shoes and stockings to change, and--Oh, dear! I wish people didn't ever have to do things, anyway!" With this very wise remark, she walked back across the ridge-pole and climbed in the window. There was nothing for Tom to do but follow; which he did slowly and reluctantly. Something would have to be said now, at any rate. But not a syllable said Gypsy. She went to the looking-glass, and began to brush her hair as unconcernedly as if everything were just as she left it and precisely as she wanted it. Tom passed through the room and out of the door; then he stopped. Gypsy's eyes began to twinkle as if somebody had dropped two little diamonds in them. "I say," said Tom. "What do you say?" replied Gypsy. "What do you suppose mother would have to say to you about this _looking_ room?" "I don't know what she'd say to you, I'm sure," said Gypsy, gravely. "And you, a great girl, twelve years old!" "I should like to know why I'm a railroad, anyway," said Gypsy. "Who said you were a railroad?" "Whoever wrote Gypsy Breynton, R. R., with my red ink." "That doesn't stand for railroad." "Doesn't? Well, what?" "Regular Romp." "Oh!" CHAPTER II A SPASM OF ORDER "I can't help it," said Gypsy, after supper; "I can't possibly help it, and it's no use for me to try."