Gypsy Breynton

stretch of sky,

of silen

ne of sil

bed, with bolted doors, and friends within the slightest call, might well alarm an older and stouter heart than Gypsy's. The consciousness of having wandered she did not know whither, she did not know how,

stirred, shivered a litt

rible shadows against the sky. Here, too, was the Dipper beneath her, swaying idly back and forth upon the water. She remembered, with a little cry of joy, that the boat w

her and it. The beds of lily-leaves, and the dropping blossoms of the m

a moment-she had not lock

the water. She tried to pull up the board seats of the boat, under the impression that she could, by degrees, paddle herself ashore

no; the boat was not going to drift ashore. It had stopped in a tangle of lily-leaves, far out in the water, and there was not a breath of wind to stir it. If the water had not been deep she could have waded ashore; but her practised ear told her, from the sound of the litt

to be done but to si

up her sack-collar, to protect her throat, she touched something soft, which proved to be the lace collar. This led her to examine her dress. She now noticed for the first time that one stocking was drawn up over her hand,-the othe

tle laugh. That laugh seemed to drive away the mystery and terror of her situation, in spite of the curious sound it h

do again. I came down stairs softly, and out of the back door. Nobody heard me, and of course nobody will hear me till morning, and I'm in a pretty fix. If I hadn't forgotten to lock the boat I should be back in bed by this time. Oh dear! I wish I were. However, I'm too large to tip myself over and get drowned, and I couldn't get hurt any other way; and there's no

d the coming of the doctor had wakened her. She had always somehow associated the hour with mysterious flickering lights, and anxious whispers and softened steps, and a dread as terrible as it was undefined. Now, out here in this desolate place, where the birds were asleep in their nest

x they would begin to miss her; her mother al

t under the seat. She pulled it out, and found it to be an old coat of Tom's, which he sometimes used for boating. Fortunately it was not wet, for the boat was new, and did no

er rose the mountains, grim and mute, and watching, as they had watched for ages, and would watch for ages still, all the long night through. Overhead, the stars gl

a poet, she would write some verses just then; indeed, if she

nd she were now floating away, helpless, out of reach of any who came to save her, to some far-off dam where the water roared and splashed on cruel rocks. Or she might, in her dream, have tipped over the boat where the water was deep, and been unable to swim, encumbered by her clothing. Then she might have been such a girl as Sarah Rowe, who would ha

whom? and Gypsy bowed her head a little at t

n crowns of sunsets and sunrisings, the cooling winds and mellow moonlights, and done all their work of beauty and of use, and done it aright. "Not one faileth." No avalanche had thundered down their sides, destroying such happy homes as hers. No volcanic fires

uided her-one little foolish, helpless girl, out of millions and millions of cr

n,-a thought that came all unbidden, and talked with Gypsy, and would not go away. It was, that she had gone to bed that night w

the lonely boat, under the lonely sky, she put this thought i

in-tops the sweet summer dawn was coming. Gypsy had never seen the sun rise. She had seen, to be sure, many times, the late, winter painting of crimson and gold in the East, which unfolded itsel

ouds, that floated faintly over the mountains, blushed pink from the touch of an unseen sun; as the pink deepened into crimson, and the crimson burned to fire, and the outlines of the mountains were cut in gold; as the gold broadened and brightened, and stole over the ragged peaks, and shot

er the sea, of which she had heard so much, were anything like it. She also had a faint, flitting notion that, in a world where there were sunrises ev

m of the boat; and the next she knew it was broad day,

!-Why,

id Gypsy, sleepily,

umped into an old mud-scull, that lay floating among the bushes,

ypsy Br

me out here to save Winnie from upsetting in a milk-pitcher, and then I

ou been here?" T

rise, only it was rather cold, and I didn't know whe

rm-so. Don't try to talk," said Tom, in a quick

e, Tom, dear," said Gypsy

t it, Gypsy-I can'

to see the view, and di

first time he had remembered to be worried over any of Gypsy's peculiarities all day. H

g in the world but popped-corn. The child wil

e neve

remember the incident. She had, perhaps, received a severe punishment for so slight a negligence, but th