And very sober they felt; they had all learned to love Joy in this year she had spent among them, and it was dreary enough to see her trunks packed and strapped in the entry, and her closet shelves upstairs empty, and all little traces of her about the house vanishing fast.
"Come along," said Gypsy in a savage undertone, "Come and eat, and let the rest stay out here.

I've hardly set eyes on you all the morning.

I must have you all myself now." "Oh hum!" said Joy, attempting a currant tart, and throwing it down with one little semi-circular bite in it.

"So I'm really off, and this is the very last time I shall sit at this table." "Hush up, if you please!" observed Gypsy, winking hard, "just eat your tart." Joy cut off a delicate mouthful of the cold tongue, and then began to look around the room.
"The last time I shall see Winnie's blocks, and that little patch of sunshine on the machine, and the big Bible on the book-case!--Oh, how I shall think about them all nights, when I'm sitting down by the grate at home." "Stop talking about your last times! It's bad enough to have you go anyway.

I don't know what I _shall_ do without you." "I don't know what I shall do without you, I'm sure," said Joy, shaking her head mournfully, "but then, you know, we're going to write to each other twice every single week." "I know it,--every week as long as we live, remember." "Oh, I shan't forget.