It was a tone that always softened Gypsy, in her gayest frolics, in her wildest moods.
For the first time since she had known Peace, it failed to soften her now.
She began in her impetuous way, her face angry and flushed, her voice trembling yet:-- "I can't tell you what it is, and that's the thing of it! It's about that horrid old Joy." "Gypsy!" "I can't help it--I hate her!" "Gypsy." Gypsy's eyes fell at the gentle word.
"Well, I felt just as if I did, down there on the steps, anyway.

You don't know what Joy said.

It's something about you, and that's what makes me so mad.

If she ever says it again!" "About me ?" interrupted Peace.
"Yes," said Gypsy, with great, flashing eyes.

"I wouldn't tell it to you for all the world; it's so bad as that, Peace.