Tom had laughed well at this plan of dressing up--Gypsy's notion, of course, and ridiculous enough, said Tom; fit for babies like Winnie, and _girls_.

(I wish I could give you in print the peculiar emphasis with which Tom was wont to dwell on this word.) But for all that, when Gypsy came down in her new Scotch plaid dress, with her cheeks so red, and her hair so smooth and black; and Winnie strutted across the room counting the buttons on his best jacket, Tom slipped away to his room, and came down with his purple necktie on.
It made a pretty, homelike picture--the bright table and the firelight, and the eager faces at the window, and the gay dresses.

Any father and mother might have been glad to call it all their own, and come into it out of the cold and the dark, after a weary day's journey.
These cozy, comfortable touches about it--the little conceit of the painted china, and the best clothes--were just like Gypsy.

Since she was glad to see her father and mother, it was imperatively necessary that she should show it; there was no danger but what her joy would have been sufficiently evident--where everything else was--in her eyes; but according to Gypsy's view of matters, it must express itself in some sort of celebration.

Whether her mother wouldn't have been quite as well pleased if her delicate, expensive porcelain had been kept safely in the closet; whether, indeed, it was exactly right for her to take it out without leave, Gypsy never stopped to consider.