It seemed to her as if she had been gone a year, instead of just one week.
She sprang down the carriage-steps at a bound, and ran into the house.

Her mother was out in the kitchen helping Patty about the dinner.

She heard such a singing and shouting as no one had made in the house since Gypsy went away, and hurried out into the front entry to see what had happened.
Tom ran in from the garden, and Winnie slid down on the banisters, and Mr.
Breynton was just coming up the yard, and Patty put her head in at the entry door, wiping her hands on her apron, and everybody must be kissed all round, and for a few minutes there was such a bustle, that Gypsy could hardly hear herself speak.
"What has brought you home so soon ?" asked her mother, then.

"We didn't look for you for a week yet." "Oh, I hate Boston!" cried Gypsy, pulling off her things.

"I didn't like anything but the Museum and Bunker Hill; and Joy wore silk dresses, and wouldn't let me look in the shop-windows, 'n I took a poor, little beggar-girl home, and you can't run round any, and Aunt Miranda told me she'd tell you, and I hate it, and she's just as cross as a bear!" "Your aunt cross!" said her mother, who could make neither beginning nor end of Gypsy's excited story.
"I guess she is," said Gypsy, with an emphasis.