CHAPTER II.
A SPASM OF ORDER "I can't help it," said Gypsy, after supper; "I can't possibly help it, and it's no use for me to try." "If you cannot help it," replied Mrs.Breynton, quietly, "then it is no fault of yours, but in every way a suitable and praiseworthy condition of things that you should keep your room looking as I would be ashamed to have a servant's room look, in my house.

People are never to blame for what they can't help." "Oh, there it is again!" said Gypsy, with the least bit of a blush, "you always stop me right off with that, on every subject, from saying my prayers down to threading a needle." "Your mother was trained in the new-school theology, and she applies her principles to things terrestrial as well as things celestial," observed her father, with an amused smile.
"Yes, sir," said Gypsy, without the least idea what he was talking about.
"Besides," added Mrs.Breynton, finishing, as she spoke, the long darn in Gypsy's dress, "I think people who give right up at little difficulties, on the theory that they can't help it, are----" "Oh, I know that too!" "What ?" "Cowards." "Exactly." "I hate cowards," said Gypsy, in a little flash, and then stood with her back half turned, her eyes fixed on the carpet, as if she were puzzling out a proposition in Euclid, somewhere hidden in its brown oak-leaves.
"Take a chair, and sit by the window and think of it," remarked Tom, in his most aggravating tone.
"That's precisely what I intend to do, sir," said Gypsy; and was as good as her word.

She went up-stairs and shut her door, and, what was remarkable, nobody saw anything more of her.

What was still more remarkable, nobody heard anything of her.

For a little while it was perfectly still overhead.
"I hope she isn't crying," said Mr.Breynton, who was always afraid Gypsy was doing something she ought not to do, and who was in about such a state of continual astonishment over the little nut-brown romp that had been making such commotion in his quiet home for twelve years, as a respectable middle-aged and kind-hearted oyster might be, if a lively young toad were shut up in his shell.
"Catch her!" said the more appreciative Tom; "I don't believe she cries four times a year.