"I should think we might, I'm sure," said Joy pausing, with a crisp bit of halibut on her fork, just midway between her plate and her lips.

"You needn't shake your head so, Mother Breynton," said Gypsy, her great brown eyes pleading over her teacup with their very most irresistible twinkle. "Now it isn't the slightest trouble to say yes, and you can just as well say it now as any other time, you know."

"But it really seems to me a little dangerous, Gypsy,—up over those mountain roads on livery-stable horses."

"But Tom says it isn't a bit dangerous, and Tom's been up it forty times. Rattlesnake has the best roads of any of the mountains round here, and there are fences by all the precipices, Tom said, didn't you, Tom?"

"No," said Tom, coolly. "There isn't a fence. There are logs in some places, and in some there aren't."

"Oh, what a bother you are! Well, any way it's all the same, and I'm not a bit afraid of stable horses. I can manage any of them, from Mr. Burt's iron-gray colt down," which was true enough. Gypsy was used to riding, and perfectly fearless.

"But Joy hasn't ridden much, and I should never forgive myself if any accident happened to her while her father is gone."

"Joy can ride Billy. There isn't a cow in Yorkbury safer."

Mrs. Breynton sipped her tea and thought about it.

"I want to go horsebacking, too," put in Winnie, glaring savagely at Gypsy over his bread and milk. "I'm five years old."

"And jerked six whole buttons off your jacket this very day," said Gypsy, eyeing certain gaps of which there were always more or less to be seen in Winnie's attire in spite of his mother's care. "A boy who jerks buttons like that couldn't go 'horsebacking.' You wouldn't have one left by the time you came home,—look out, you'll have your milk over. You tipped it over times enough this morning for one day."

"You will have your milk over; don't stand the mug up on the napkin-ring,—no, nor on that crust of bread, either," repeated his mother, and everybody looked up anxiously, and edged away a little from Winnie's immediate vicinity. This young gentleman had a pleasing little custom of deluging the united family at meal-time, at least once regularly every day, with milk and bread-crumbs; maternal and paternal injunctions, threats, and punishments notwithstanding, he contrived every day some perfectly novel, ingenious, and totally unexpected method of accomplishing the same; uniting, in his efforts, the strategy of a Napoleon, with the unruffled composure of a Grant.

"I don't know but what I'll see what father thinks about it," Mrs. Breynton went on, thoughtfully. "If he should be willing—"

"Good, good!" cried Gypsy, clapping her hands. "Father's in the library. Winnie, you run up and ask him if we can't go up Rattlesnake."

"Well," said Winnie, "when I just get through eatin'. I'm goin' to make him let me horseback as much as you or anybody else."

Winnie finished his toast with imperturbable deliberation, pushed back his chair, and jumped up.

Splash! went a shower of milk all over him, his mother, the table, and the carpet. Everybody jumped. Winnie gasped and stood dripping.

"Oh-oh! how did he do it? Why, Winnie Breynton!"

For there hung the mug from his waist, empty, upside down, tied to his bib.

"In a hard knot, if you'll believe it! I never saw such a child in all my life! Why, Winnie!"

The utter blankness of astonishment that crept over Winnie's face when he looked down and saw the mug hanging, Mr. Darley might have made a small fortune out of; but the pen of a Cicero could not attempt it. It appeared to be one of those cases when "the heart feels most though the lips move not."

"What did you do such a thing for? What could possess you?"

"Oh," said Winnie, very red in the face, "it's there, is it? I was a steamboat, and the mug was my stove-pipe, 'n' then I forgot. I want a clean apron. I don't want any milk to-morrer."

This was in the early summer. The holidays had come and gone, and the winter and the spring. Coasting, skating, and snowballing had given place to driving hoop, picking flowers, boating, and dignified promenades on the fashionable pavement down town; furs and bright woolen hoods, tippets, mittens, and rubber-boots were exchanged for calico dresses, comfortable, brown, bare hands, and jaunty straw hats with feathers on them. On the whole, it had been a pleasant winter: times there had been when Gypsy heartily wished Joy had never come, when Joy heartily wished she were at home; certain little jealousies there had been, selfish thoughts, unkind acts, angry words; but many penitent hours as well, some confessions, the one to the other, that nobody else heard, and a certain faint, growing interest in each other. Strictly speaking, they did not very much love each other yet, but they were not far from it. "I am getting used to Joy," said Gypsy. "I like Gypsy ever so much better than I did once," Joy wrote to her father. One thing they had learned that winter. Every generous deed, every thoughtful word, narrowed the distance between them; each one wiped out the ugly memory of some past impatience, some past unkindness. And now something was about to happen that should bring them nearer to each other than anything had done yet.

That June night on which they sat at the tea-table discussing the excursion up Rattlesnake was the beginning of it. When Winnie was sufficiently mopped up to admit of his locomotion about the house with any safety to the carpets, he was dispatched to the library on the errand to his father. What with various wire-pullings of Gypsy's, and arguments from Tom, the result was that Mr. Breynton gave his consent to the plan, on condition that the young people would submit to his accompanying them.

"That's perfectly splend," cried Gypsy; "all the better for having you. Only, my best beloved of fathers, you mustn't keep saying, 'Gypsy, Gypsy, be careful,' you know, every time my horse jumps, because if you should, I'm very much afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"That Gypsy wouldn't be careful," said the young lady, folding her hands demurely. Her father attempted to call her a sauce-box but Gypsy jumped upon his knee, and pulled his whiskers till he cried out for mercy, and gave her a kiss instead.

There was an undercurrent of reality in the fun, however. Mr. Breynton's over-anxiety—fussiness, some people would have called it—his children were perfectly conscious of; children are apt to be the first to discover their parents' faults and weaknesses. Gypsy loved her father dearly, but she somehow always felt as if he must be managed.

So it came about that on a certain royal June day, a merry party started for a horseback ride up Rattlesnake mountain.

"I've a good mind to take my waterproof," said Joy, as they were starting; "we may not be back till late, and you know how cold it grows by the river after dark."

"Nonsense!" laughed Gypsy; "why, the thermometer's 80° already."

Nevertheless, Joy went back and got the waterproof. She afterwards had occasion to be very glad of it.

The party consisted of Mr. Breynton, Tom, Joy, Gypsy, Mr. and Mrs. Hallam (this was the Mrs. Hallam who had once been Gypsy's teacher), Sarah Rowe, and her brother Francis, who was home from college on account of ill health, he said. Tom always coughed and arched his eyebrows in a very peculiar way when this was mentioned, but Gypsy could never find out what he did it for.

The day, as I said, was royal. The sky, the river, the delicate golden green of the young leaves and grass, the lights and shadows on the distant mountains, all were mellowed in together like one of Church's pictures, and there was one of those spicy winds that Gypsy always described by saying that "the angels had been showering great bottles of fresh cologne-water into them."

The young people felt these things in a sort of dreamy, unconscious way, but they were too busy and too merry to notice them in detail.

Joy was mounted safely on demure Billy, and Gypsy rode—not Mr. Burt's iron-gray, for Tom claimed that—but a free, though manageable pony, with just the arch of the neck, toss of the mane, and coquettish lifting of the feet that she particularly fancied. The rest were variously mounted: Francis Rowe rode a fiery colt that his father had just bought, and the like of which was not to be seen in Yorkbury.

Up—up, winding on and away, through odors of fragrant pines and unseen flowers, under the soft, green shadows, through the yellow lights. How beautiful—how beautiful it was!

"Who'll race with me?" inquired Mr. Francis Rowe suddenly. "I call it an uncommon bore, this doing nothing but looking at the trees. I say, Breynton, the slope's easy here for a quarter of a mile; come ahead."

"No, thank you; I don't approve of racing up mountains."

Tom might have said he didn't approve of being beaten; the iron-gray was no match for the colt, and he knew it.

"Who'll race?" persisted Mr. Francis, impatiently; "isn't there anybody?"

"I will," said Gypsy, seriously enough.

"You!" said Tom; "why, the colt would leave that bay mare out of sight before you could say Jack Robinson."

"Oh, I don't expect to beat. Of course that's out of the question. But I should like the run; where's the goal, Francis?"

"That turn in the road where the tall fir-tree is, with those dead limbs; you see?"

"Yes. We'll trot, of course. All ready."

"Be very careful, Gypsy," called her father, nervously; "I'm really almost afraid to have you go. You might come to the precipice sooner, than you expect, and then the horse may shy."

"I'll be careful father; come, Nelly, gently—whe-ee!"

Suddenly reflecting that it was not supposed to be lady-like to whistle, Gypsy drew her lips into a demure pucker, touched Nelly with the tassel of her whip, and flew away up the hill on a brisk trot. Mr. Francis condescendingly checked the full speed of the colt, and they rode on pretty nearly side by side.

"I'm afraid, in justice to my horse, I must really come in first," began Mr. Francis, loosening his rein as they neared the fir-tree.

"Oh, of course," said Gypsy, with a twinkle in her eyes; "I didn't undertake to beat."

Now Nelly had a trick with which Gypsy was perfectly familiar, of breaking into a run at an instant's notice, if she were pinched in a certain spot on her neck. Suddenly, while the colt was springing on in his fleet trot, and Mr. Francis supposed Gypsy was a full eight feet behind, he was utterly confounded to see her flying past him on a bounding gallop, her hair tossing in the wind, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes triumphant.

But right in the middle of the road, between them and the fir-tree, was something neither of them had seen;—a huge tree just fallen, with its high, prickly branches on.

"Jerusalem!" said Mr. Francis, under his breath as the colt pricked up his ears ominously.

"Oh, good! here's a jump," cried Gypsy, and over it she went at a bound. The colt reared and shied, and planting his dainty forefeet firmly on the ground, refused to stir an inch. Gypsy whirled around and stood triumphant under the fir-tree, her eyes snapping merrily.

"Why, how did this ever happen?" cried the rest, as they came laughing up.

"I say, there's some witchcraft about this business," remarked Mr. Francis, quite bewildered; "wait till I've cleared off these branches, and we'll try that over again."

"Very well," said Gypsy, in a perfect whirl of excitement and delight, as she always was, with anything in the shape of reins in her hand. But just then she looked back and saw Joy toiling on slowly behind the others; Billy with his head hanging and his spirits quite gone. Gypsy stopped a moment as if in thought, and then rode slowly down the hill.

"I'm having a horrid time," said Joy disconsolately, as she came up; "Billy is as stupid as a mule, and won't go."

"I'm real sorry," said Gypsy, slowly; "you might have Nelly. We'll change awhile."

"No," said Joy, "I'm afraid of Nelly. Besides, you wouldn't like Billy any better than I do. It's dreadfully stupid back here alone, though. I wish I hadn't come."

"Francis," called Gypsy, "I guess I won't race, I'm going to ride with Joy awhile."

"Why, you needn't do that!" said Joy, rather ashamed of her complaining. But Gypsy did do it; and though her face had clouded for the moment, a sunbeam broke over it then that lasted the rest of the day.

The day passed very much like other picnics. They stopped in a broad, level place on the summit of the mountain, tied the horses where they could graze on the long, tufted wood-grass, unpacked the dinner baskets, and devoted themselves to biscuit and cold tongue, tarts, lemonade and current wine, through the lazy, golden nooning.

It was voted that they should not attempt the long, hot ride down the mountain-side until the blaze of the afternoon sun should be somewhat cooled. So, after dinner they went their several ways, finding amusement for the sultry hours. Mr. Breynton and Tom went off on a hunt after a good place to water the horses; Francis Rowe betook himself to a cigar; Sarah curled herself up on the soft moss with her sack for a pillow, and went to sleep; Mr. and Mrs. Hallam sat under the trees and read Tennyson to each other.

"How terribly stupid that must be," said Gypsy, looking on in supreme disgust; "let's you and I go off. I know a place where there used to be some splendid foxberry blossoms, lot's of 'em, real pretty; they looked just as if they were snipped out of pearls with a pair of sharp scissors."

"I wouldn't go out of sight of us all," called Mr. Breynton, as the two girls roamed away together among the trees.

"But you are most out of sight now," said Joy, presently.

"Oh, he didn't say we mustn't," answered Gypsy. "He didn't mean we mustn't, either. Father always worries so."

It would have been well for Gypsy if her father's wish had been to her what her mother's was—as binding as a command. "Just think," observed Gypsy, as they strolled on through the fallen leaves and redcup mosses, "just think of their sitting still and reading poetry on a picnic! I can't get over it. Miss Melville didn't used to do such stupid things. It's just 'cause she's married."

"How do you know but you'll do just the same some day?"

"Catch me! I'm not going to be married at all."

"Not going to be married! Why, I am, and I'm going to have a white velvet dress too."

"Well, you may. But I wouldn't for a whole trunkful of white velvet dresses—no, I wouldn't for two dozen trunkfuls. I'm not going to stay home and keep house, and look sober, with my hair done up behind. I'd rather be an old maid, and have a pony and run round in the woods."

"Why, I never saw such a girl!" exclaimed Joy, opening her small eyes wide; "I wouldn't be an old maid for anything. I'm going to be married in St. Paul's, and I'm going to have my dress all caught up with orange buds, and spangles on my veil. TherÉse and I, we planned it all out one night—TherÉse used to be my French nurse, you know."

For answer, Gypsy threw herself down suddenly on the velvet moss, her eyes turned up to the far, hazy sky, showing in patches through a lace work of thousands of leaves.

"Joy," she said, breaking a silence, and speaking in a curious, earnest tone Gypsy seldom used, "I do really, though, sometimes go off alone where there are some trees, and wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"What in this world I was ever made for. I suppose there's got to be a reason."

"A reason!" said Joy, blankly.

"There's got to be something done, for all I see. God doesn't make people live on and on and die, for nothing. One can't be a little girl all one's life, climbing trees and making snowballs," said Gypsy, half dreamily, half impatiently, jumping up and walking on.

So they wandered away and away, deeper into the heart of the forest, through moss and tufted grasses, and tangles of mountain flowers, chatting as girls will, in their silly, merry way, with now and then a flash of graver thought like this of Gypsy's.

"You're sure you know the way back," said Joy, presently.

"Oh, yes; I've been over it forty times. We've turned about a good many times, but I don't think we've gone very far from the top of the mountain."

So, deeper, and further, and on, where the breath of the pines was sweet; where hidden blossoms were folding their cups for the night, and the shadows in the thickets were growing gray.

"Gypsy!" said Joy, suddenly, "we're certainly going down hill!"

"So we are," said Gypsy, thoughtfully; "it's getting dark, too. They'll be ready to start for home. I guess we'll go back now."

They turned then, and began rapidly to retrace their steps, over brambles and stones and fallen trees; through thickets, and up projecting rocks—very rapidly.

"It is growing dark," said Gypsy, half under her breath; "why didn't we find it out before?"

"Gypsy," said Joy, after a silence, "do you remember that knot of white birches? I don't."

Gypsy stopped and looked around.

"N-no, I don't know as I do. But I dare say we saw them and forgot. Let's walk a little faster."

They walked a little faster. They walked quite as fast as they could go.

"See that great pile of rock," said Joy, presently, her voice trembling a little; "I know we didn't come by that before. It looks as if there were a precipice off there."

Gypsy made no answer. She was looking keenly around, her eyes falling on every rock, stump, tree, and flower, in search of the tiny, trodden path by which they had left the summit of the mountain. But there was no path. Only the bramble, and the grass, and the tangled thickets.

It was now very dark.

"I guess this is the way," spoke up Gypsy, cheerfully—"here. Take hold of my hand, Joy, and we'll run. I think I know where the path is. We had turned off from it a little bit."

Joy took her hand, and they ran on together. It grew darker, and grew darker. They could scarcely see the sky now, and the brambles grew high and thick and strange.

Suddenly Gypsy stopped, knee-deep in a jungle of blackberry bushes.

"Joy, I'm—afraid I don't—know the—way."