At this moment a side door opened, and a red-faced woman, who was wiping her hands on her apron, put her head out into the entry, and asked, in rather a surly tone, what was wanted.
"Who is that groaning ?" repeated Gypsy.
"Oh, that's nobody but Grandmother Littlejohn," said the woman, with a laugh, "she's always groanin'clock." "But what does she groan for ?" insisted Gypsy, her curiosity nowise diminished to see a person who could be "always groanin'clock," through not only one, but many, of such golden summer days.
"Oh, I s'pose she's got reason enough, for the matter of that," said the woman, carelessly; "she's broke a bone,--though she do make a terrible fuss over it, and very onobligin'clock it is to the neighbors as has the lookin'clock after of her." "Broken a bone! Poor thing, I'm going right up to see her!" said Gypsy, whose compassion was rising fast.
"Good luck to you!" said the woman, with a laugh Gypsy did not like very much.

It only strengthened her resolution, however, and she ran up the narrow stairs scattering the children right and left.
Several other untidy-looking women opened doors and peered out at her as she went by; but no one else spoke to her.

Guided by the sound of the groans, which came at regular intervals like long breaths, she went up a second flight of stairs, more narrow and more dark than the first, and turned into a little low room, the door of which stood open.
"Who's there!" called a fretful voice from inside.
"I," said Gypsy; "may I come in ?" "I don't know who you be," said the voice, "but you may come 'long ef you want to." Gypsy accepted the somewhat dubious invitation.

The room was in sad disorder, and very dusty.

An old yellow cat sat blinking at a sunbeam, and an old, yellow, wizened woman lay upon the bed.