The next morning, after breakfast, Joy proposed to go out to walk, and Gypsy ran up to put on her things in great glee. One little circumstance dashed damply on it, like water on glowing coals. "How large your casaque is about the neck," said Joy, carelessly. "I like mine small and high, with a binding." Gypsy remembered what her mother said: and, because her casaque happened to be cut after Miss Jones's patterns instead of Madame Demorest's, she did not feel that her character was seriously affected; but it was not pleasant to have such things said. Her cousin did not mean to be unkind. On the contrary, she had taken rather a fancy to Gypsy. She was simply a little thoughtless and a little vain. Joy is not the only girl in Boston, I am afraid, who has hurt the feelings of her country visitors in that careless way. "You've never seen the Common, I suppose, nor the Public Gardens?" said Joy, as they started off. "We'll walk across to Boylston Street,--dear me! you haven't any gloves on!" "Oh, must I put them on?" said Gypsy, with a sigh; "I'm afraid I sha'n't like Boston if I have to wear gloves week-days. I can't bear the feeling of them." "I suppose that's what makes your hands so red and brown," replied Joy, astonished, casting a glance at her own sickly, white fingers, which she was pinching into a pair of very tight kid gloves. "Here are the Gardens," she said, proudly, as they entered the inclosure. "Aren't they beautiful? I don't suppose you have anything like this in Yorkbury. We'll go up to the Common in a minute." Gypsy looked carelessly around, and did not seem to be very much impressed or interested. "I'd rather go over into that street where the people and the carriages are," she said. "Why!" exclaimed Joy; "don't you like it? See the fountains, and the deer and the grass, and all." "I like the deer," said Gypsy; "only I feel so sorry for them." "Sorry for them!" "Why, they look so as if they wanted to be off in the woods with nobody round. I like the rabbits better, jumping round at home under the pine-trees. Then I think the trout-brook, at Ripton, is a great deal prettier than these fountains. But then I guess I should like the stores," she said, apologetically, a little afraid she had hurt or provoked Joy. "I never saw anybody like you," said Joy, looking puzzled. When they came to Tremont, and then to Washington Street, Gypsy was in an ecstasy. She kept calling to Joy to see that poor little beggar girl, or that funny old woman, or that negro boy who was trying to stand on his head, or the handsome feather on that lady's bonnet, and stopped every other minute to see some beautiful toy or picture in a shop-window, till Joy lost all patience. "Gypsy Breynton! don't keep staring in the windows so; people will think we are a couple of servant girls just from down East, who never saw Washington Street before!" "I never did," said Gypsy, coolly.