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.
But she looked a little sober.

What was the use of Boston, and all its beautiful sights and busy sounds, if you must walk right along as if you were going to church, and not seem to see nor hear any of the wonders, for fear of being called countrified?
Gypsy began to hate the word.
"You must take your cousin to the Aquarial Gardens," said Mr.Breynton to Joy, at dinner.
"Oh, I'm tired to death of the Aquarial Gardens," answered Joy; "none of the girls I go with ever go now, and I've seen it all so many times." "But Gypsy hasn't.

Try the Museum, then." "I can't bear the Museum.

The white snakes in bottles make me so nervous," said Joy.
"A white snake in a bottle! Why, I never saw one," said Gypsy, with sparkling eyes.
"Well, I'll go with you, child, if Joy hasn't the politeness to do it," said her uncle, patting her eager face.
"Mr.Breynton," said his wife, petulantly, "you are _always_ blaming that child for something." Yet, in the very next breath, she scolded Joy, for delaying her practising ten minutes, more severely than her father would have done if she had told a falsehood.
Mr.Breynton was very busy the next day, and forgot all about Gypsy; but the day after he left his store at an early hour, and took her to the Museum, and out to Bunker Hill.