Isn't it splendid ?" "Ye-es," said Gypsy, slowly.
"Well! I don't think you seem to care much." Gypsy looked at her shell-work, and said nothing.

For the second time that dull, curious pain had crept into her heart.

What did it mean?
Was it possible that she was _envious_ of Joy?
Was it _possible_?
The hot crimson rushed to Gypsy's cheeks for shame at the thought.

But the thought was there.
She chanced to be in Peace Maythorne's room one day when the bustle of preparation for the holidays was busiest.

Peace hid something under the counterpane as she came in, flushing a little.