A great, solemn stretch of sky, alive with stars.

A sheet of silent water.

A long line of silent hills.

She had acted out her dream! When the truth came to Gypsy, she sat for a moment like one stunned. The terrible sense of awakening in a desolate place, at midnight, and alone, instead of in a safe and quiet bed, with bolted doors, and friends within the slightest call, might well alarm an older and stouter heart than Gypsy’s. The consciousness of having wandered she did not know whither, she did not know how, in the helplessness of sleep, into a place where her voice could reach no human ear, was in itself enough to freeze her where she sat, with hands locked, and wide, frightened eyes, staring into the darkness.

After a few moments she stirred, shivered a little, and looked about her.

It was the Basin, surely. There were the maples, there was the Kleiner Berg rolling up, soft and shadowy, among its pines. There were the mountains, towering and sharp—terrible shadows against the sky. Here, too, was the Dipper beneath her, swaying idly back and forth upon the water. She remembered, with a little cry of joy, that the boat was always locked; she could not have stirred from the shore; it would be but the work of a moment to jump upon the wharf, then back swiftly through the fields to the house.

She looked back. The wharf was not in sight. A dark distance lay between her and it. The beds of lily-leaves, and the dropping blossoms of the maples were about her on every side. She had drifted half across the pond.

She understood it all in a moment—she had not locked the boat that afternoon.

What was to be done? The oars were half a mile away, in the barn at home. There was not so much as a branch floating within reach on the water. She tried to pull up the board seats of the boat, under the impression that she could, by degrees, paddle herself ashore with one of them. But they were nailed tightly in their places, and she could not stir them. Evidently, there was nothing to be done.

Perhaps the boat would drift ashore somewhere; she could land anywhere; even on the steep Kleiner Berg side she could easily have found footing; she was well used to climbing its narrow ledges, and knew every crack and crevice and projection where a step could be taken. But, no; the boat was not going to drift ashore. It had stopped in a tangle of lily-leaves, far out in the water, and there was not a breath of wind to stir it. If the water had not been deep she could have waded ashore; but her practised ear told her, from the sound of the little waves against her hand, that wading was not to be thought of. To be sure, Gypsy could swim; but a walk of half a mile in drenched clothes was hardly preferable to sitting still in a dry boat, to say nothing of the inconvenience of swimming in crinoline, and on a dark night.

No, there was nothing to be done but to sit still till morning.

Having come to this conclusion, Gypsy gave another little shiver, and slipped down into the bottom of the boat, thinking she might lie with her head under the stern-seat, and thus be somewhat shielded from the chilly air. In turning up her sack-collar, to protect her throat, she touched something soft, which proved to be the lace collar. This led her to examine her dress. She now noticed for the first time that one stocking was drawn up over her hand,—the other she had probably lost on the way,—and that she had put her bare feet into rubber-boots. The lace collar was fastened by a bit of green chenille she sometimes wore at her throat, and which had doubtless been the snake of her dream.

Lonely, frightened, and cold as she was, Gypsy’s sense of the ludicrous overcame her at that, and she broke into a little laugh. That laugh seemed to drive away the mystery and terror of her situation, in spite of the curious sound it had in echoing over the lonely water; and Gypsy set herself to work with her usual good sense to see how matters stood.

“In the first place,” she reasoned, talking half aloud for the sake of the company of her own voice, “I’ve had a fit of what the dictionary calls somnambulism, I suppose. I eat too much pop-corn after supper, and that’s the whole of it,—it always makes me dream,—only I never was goose enough to get out of bed before, and I rather think it’ll be some time before I do again. I came down stairs softly, and out of the back door. Nobody heard me, and of course nobody will hear me till morning, and I’m in a pretty fix. If I hadn’t forgotten to lock the boat I should be back in bed by this time. Oh dear! I wish I were. However, I’m too large to tip myself over and get drowned, and I couldn’t get hurt any other way; and there’s nothing to be afraid of if I do have to stay here till morning, except sore throat, so there’s no great harm done. The worst of it is, that old Tom! Won’t he laugh at me about the boat! I never expect to hear the end of it. Then when they go to my room and find me gone, in the morning, they’ll be frightened. I’m rather sorry for that. I wish I knew what time it is.”

Just then the distant church-clock struck two. Gypsy held her breath, and listened to it. It had a singular, solemn sound. She had never heard the clock strike two in the morning but once before in her life. That was once when she was very small, when her father was dangerously sick, and the coming of the doctor had wakened her. She had always somehow associated the hour with mysterious flickering lights, and anxious whispers and softened steps, and a dread as terrible as it was undefined. Now, out here in this desolate place, where the birds were asleep in their nests, and the winds quiet among the mountain-tops, and the very frogs tired of their chanting,—herself the only waking thing,—these two far, deep-toned syllables seemed like a human voice. Like the voice, Gypsy fancied, of some one imprisoned for years in the belfry, and crying to get out.

Two o’clock. Three—four—five—six. At about six they would begin to miss her; her mother always called her, then, to get up. Four hours.

“Hum,—well,” said Gypsy, drawing her sack-collar closer, “pretty long time to sit out in a boat and shiver. It might be worse, though.” Just then her foot struck something soft under the seat. She pulled it out, and found it to be an old coat of Tom’s, which he sometimes used for boating. Fortunately it was not wet, for the boat was new, and did not leak. She wrapped it closely around her shoulders, curled herself up snugly in the stern, and presently pronounced herself “as warm as toast, and as comfortable as an oyster.”

Then she began to look about her. All around and underneath her lay the black, still water,—so black that the maple-branches cast no shadow on it. About and above her rose the mountains, grim and mute, and watching, as they had watched for ages, and would watch for ages still, all the long night through. Overhead, the stars glittered and throbbed, and shot in and out of ragged clouds. Far up in the great forests, that climbed the mountain-sides, the wind was muttering like an angry voice.

Somehow it made Gypsy sit very still. She thought, if she were a poet, she would write some verses just then; indeed, if she had had a pencil, I am not sure but she would have, as it was.

Then some other thoughts came to Gypsy. She wondered why, of all places, she chanced to come to the Basin in her dream. She might have gone to the saw-mill, and been caught and whirred to death in the machinery. She might have gone to the bridge over the river, and thrown herself off, not knowing what she did. Or, what if the pond had been a river, and she were now floating away, helpless, out of reach of any who came to save her, to some far-off dam where the water roared and splashed on cruel rocks. Or she might, in her dream, have tipped over the boat where the water was deep, and been unable to swim, encumbered by her clothing. Then she might have been such a girl as Sarah Rowe, who would have suffered agonies of fright at waking to find herself in such a place. But she had been led to the quiet, familiar Basin, and no harm had come to her, and she had good strong nerves, and lost all her fear in five minutes, so that the mischance would end only in an exciting adventure, which would give her something to talk about as long as she lived.

Well; she was sure she was very thankful to—whom? and Gypsy bowed her head a little at the question, and she sat a moment very still.

Then she had other thoughts. She looked up at the shadowed mountains, and thought how year after year, summer and winter, day and night, those terrible masses of rock had cleaved together, and stood still, and caught the rains and the snows and vapors, the golden crowns of sunsets and sunrisings, the cooling winds and mellow moonlights, and done all their work of beauty and of use, and done it aright. “Not one faileth.” No avalanche had thundered down their sides, destroying such happy homes as hers. No volcanic fires had torn them into seething lava. No beetling precipice, of which she ever heard, had fallen and crushed so much as the sheep feeding in the valleys. To the power of the hills as to the power of the seas, Someone had said, Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.

And the Hand that could uphold a mountain in its place, was the Hand that had guided her—one little foolish, helpless girl, out of millions and millions of creatures for whom He was caring—in the wanderings of an uneasy sleep that night.

There was a great awe and a great joy in this thought; but sharp upon it came another, as a pleasure is followed by a sudden pain,—a thought that came all unbidden, and talked with Gypsy, and would not go away. It was, that she had gone to bed that night without a prayer. She was tired and sleepy, and the lamp went out, and so,—and so,—well, she didn’t know exactly how it came about.

Gypsy’s bowed head fell into her hands, and there, crouched in the lonely boat, under the lonely sky, she put this thought into a few whispered words, and I know there was One to hear it.

Other thoughts had Gypsy after this; but they were those she could not have put into words. For three of those solemn, human syllables had sounded from the distant clock, and far over the mountain-tops the sweet summer dawn was coming. Gypsy had never seen the sun rise. She had seen, to be sure, many times, the late, winter painting of crimson and gold in the East, which unfolded itself before her window, and chased away her dreams. But she had never watched that slow, mysterious change from midnight to morning, which is the only spectacle that can properly be called a sunrise.

There was something in Gypsy that made her sit like a statue there, wrapped in Tom’s old coat, her face upturned, and her very breath held in, as the heavy shadows softened and melted, and the stars began to dim in a pale, gray light, that fell and folded in the earth like a mist; as the clouds, that floated faintly over the mountains, blushed pink from the touch of an unseen sun; as the pink deepened into crimson, and the crimson burned to fire, and the outlines of the mountains were cut in gold; as the gold broadened and brightened, and stole over the ragged peaks, and shot down among the forests, and filtered through the maple-leaves, and chased the purple shadows far down among the valleys; as the birds twittered in unseen nests, and the crickets chirped in the meadows, and the dews fell and sparkled from nodding grasses, and “all the world grew green again.”

Gypsy thought it was worth an ugly dream and a little fright, to see such a sight. She wondered if those old pictures of the great masters far away over the sea, of which she had heard so much, were anything like it. She also had a faint, flitting notion that, in a world where there were sunrises every day, it was very strange people should ever be cross, and tear their dresses, and forget to lock boats. It seemed as if they ought to know better.

Just then Gypsy fell asleep, with her head on the bottom of the boat; and the next she knew it was broad day, and a dear, familiar voice, from somewhere, was calling,—

“Gypsy!—Why, Gypsy!”

“How do you do?” said Gypsy, sleepily, sitting up straight.

Tom was standing on the shore. He did not say another word. He jumped into an old mud-scull, that lay floating among the bushes, and paddled up to her before she was wide enough awake to speak.

“Why, Gypsy Breynton!”

“I’ve been walking in my sleep,” said Gypsy, with a little laugh; “I came out here to save Winnie from upsetting in a milk-pitcher, and then I woke up, and I did forget to lock the boat, and I couldn’t get ashore.”

“How long have you been here?” Tom was very pale.

“Since a little before two. There was a splendid sunrise, only it was rather cold, and I didn’t know where I was at first, and I—well, I’m glad you’re come.”

“Put on my coat over that. Lean up against my arm—so. Don’t try to talk,” said Tom, in a quick, business-like tone. But Tom was curiously pale.

“Why, there’s no harm done, Tom, dear,” said Gypsy, looking up into his face.

“I can’t talk about it, Gypsy—I can’t, I thought, I——”

Tom looked the other way to see the view, and did not finish his sentence.

“You don’t suppose she’s going to be a somnambulist?” asked Mr. Breynton. This was the first time he had remembered to be worried over any of Gypsy’s peculiarities all day. He had spent so much time in looking at her, and kissing her, and wiping his spectacles.

“No, indeed,” said her mother; “it was nothing in the world but popped-corn. The child will never have another such turn, I’ll venture.”

And she never did.

It is needless to say that nobody scolded Gypsy for forgetting to lock the boat. She was likely enough to remember the incident. She had, perhaps, received a severe punishment for so slight a negligence, but the reader may rest assured that the boat was always locked thereafter when Gypsy had anything to do with it.