A week's penance "done up in paper" made no more impression than if you were to pinch it.
However, that did not interfere with her making a bit of a picture, perched up there on the roof beside Tom, among her burs and her flowers and her moss, her face all dimples from forehead to chin.
"Where have you been ?" said Tom, trying to look severe, and making a most remarkable failure.
"Oh, only over to the three-mile swamp after white violets.

Sarah Rowe, she got her two hands full, and then she just fell splash into the water, full length, and lost 'em--Oh, dear me, how I laughed! She did look so funny." "Your boots are all mud," said Tom.
"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.