Gypsy coughed, and walked up and down on the garden fence in significant silence.
Joy was not to go to school till Monday.

Meantime she amused herself at home with her aunt, and Gypsy went as usual without her.
Saturday afternoon was the perfect pattern of an autumn afternoon.

A creamy haze softened the sharp outline of the mountains, and lay cloudlike on the fields.

The sunlight fell through it like sifted gold, the sky hung motionless and blue--that glowless, deepening blue that always made Gypsy feel, she said, "as if she must drink it right up"-- and away over miles of field and mountain slope the maples crimsoned and flamed.
Gypsy came home at noon with her hat hanging down her neck, her cheeks on fire, and panting like the old lady who died for want of breath; rushing up the steps, tearing open the door, and slamming into the parlor.
"Look here!--everybody--where are you?
What do you think?
Joy! Mother! There's going to be a great chestnutting." "A what ?" asked Joy, dropping her embroidery.
"A chestnutting, up at Mr.Jonathan Jones's trees, this afternoon at two o'clock.

Did you ever hear anything so perfectly mag ?"--mag being "Gypsy" for magnificent.
"Who are to make the party ?" asked her mother.
"Oh, I and Sarah Rowe and Delia Guest and--and Sarah Rowe and I," said Gypsy, talking very fast.
"And Joy," said Mrs.Breynton, gently.
"Joy, of course.