Mr. and Mrs. Breynton exchanged glances. They saw that something was wrong; but wisely considered that that time was not the one for making any inquiries into the matter. Mrs. Breynton thought, also, that if Gypsy had been guilty of ill-temper or rudeness, she would confess it herself. She was right; for as soon as dinner was over, Gypsy called her away alone, and told her all the story. They were shut up together a long time, and when Gypsy came out her eyes were red with crying. All that Mrs. Breynton said does not matter here; but Gypsy is not likely soon to forget it. A few words spoken, just as the conversation ended, became golden mottoes that helped her over many rough places in her life. "It is all the old trouble, Gypsy,--you 'didn't think.' A little self-control, a moment's quiet thought, would have saved all this." "Oh, I know it!" sobbed Gypsy. "That's what always ails me. I'm always doing things, and always sorry for them. I mean to do right, and I cannot remember. What shall I do with myself, mother?" "Gypsy," said her mother, very soberly, "this will never do. You _can_ think. And Gypsy, my child, in every one of these little thoughtless words and acts God sees a _sin_." "A sin when you didn't think?" exclaimed Gypsy. "You must learn to think, Gypsy; and He will teach you." Her mother kissed her many times, and Gypsy clung to her neck, and was very still. Whatever thoughts she had just then, she never told them to any one. The afternoon passed away like a merry dream. Gypsy was so happy that she had had the talk with her mother; so glad to be kissed and forgiven and loved and helped; to find every one so pleased to see her back, and home so dear, and the mountains so blue and beautiful, and the sunlight so bright, that she scarcely knew whether she were asleep or awake. She must hunt up the kitten, and feed the chickens, and take a peep at the cow, and stroke old Billy in his stall; she must see how many sweet peas were left on the vines, and climb out on the shed-roof that had been freshly shingled since she was gone, and run down to the Kleiner Berg, and over to see Sarah Rowe. She must know just what Tom had been doing this interminable week, just how many buttons Winnie had lost off from his jacket, and what kind of pies Patty had baked for dinner. She must kiss her mother twenty times an hour, and pull her father's whiskers, and ride Winnie on her shoulder. Best of all, perhaps, it was to run down to Peace Maythorne's, and find the sunlight golden in the quiet room, and the pale face smiling on the pillow; to hear the gentle voice, when the door opened, say, "Oh, Gypsy!" in such a way,--as no other voice ever said it; and then to sit down and lay her head upon the pillow by Peace, and tell her all that had happened. "Well," said Peace, smiling, "I think you have learned a good deal for one week, and I guess you will never _un_learn it."