Her charity, like that of most young people of her age and experience, was not of the sort calculated to survive under difficulties, or to deal successfully with shrewish old women.
After inquiring in vain of the group of staring children where Peace Maythorne's room was, Gypsy resorted to her friend, the red-faced woman, who directed her to a door upon the second story.
It was closed, and Gypsy knocked.
"Come in," said a quiet voice.

Gypsy went in, wondering why Peace Maythorne did not get up and open the door, and if she did not know it was more polite.

She stopped short, as she entered the room, and wondered no longer.
It was a plain, bare room, but neat enough, and not unpleasant nor unhomelike, because of the great flood of morning sunlight that fell in and touched everything to golden warmth.

It touched most brightly, and lingered longest, on a low bed drawn up between the windows.

A girl lay there, with a pale face turned over on the pillows, and weak, thin hands, folded on the counterpane.