They had just come out of Hovey's, when they met a ragged child, not more than three years old, crying as if its heart were broken.
"Oh, dear!" cried Gypsy; "see that poor little girl! I'm going to see what's the matter." "Don't!" said Joy, horrified; "come along! Nobody stops to speak to beggars in Boston; what _are_ you doing ?" For Gypsy had stopped and taken the child's two dirty little fists down from her eyes, and looked down into the tear-stained and mud-stained face to see what was the matter.
"I--I don't know where nobody is," sobbed the child.
"Have you lost your way?
Where do you live ?" asked Gypsy, with great, pitying eyes.

Gypsy could never bear to see anybody cry; and then the little creature was so ragged and thin.
"I live there," said the child, pointing vaguely down the street.
"Mother's to home there somewhars." "I'll go with you and find your mother," said Gypsy; and taking the child's hand, she started off in her usual impulsive fashion, without a thought beyond her pity.
"Gypsy! Gypsy Breynton!" called Joy.

"The police will take her home--you mustn't!" But Gypsy did not hear, and Joy, shocked and indignant, went home and left her.
In about an hour Gypsy came back, flushed and panting with her haste.

Joy, in speechless amazement, had looked from the window and seen her _running_ across the Common.
Her aunt met her on the stairs with a face like a thunder-cloud.
"Why, Gypsy Breynton, I am ashamed of you! How _could_ you do such a thing as to go off with a beggar, and _take hold of her hand_ right there in Summer Street, and go nobody knows where, alone, into those terrible Irish streets! It was a _dreadful_ thing to do, and I should think you would have known better, and I really think I must write to your mother about it immediately!" Gypsy stood for a moment, motionless with astonishment.

Then, without saying a word, she passed her aunt quickly on the stairs, and ran up to her room.