Gypsy threw down the gun, and threw up her hands with a curious quick motion, like one in suffocation, who was trying to find a voice; but she did not utter a sound.

There was an instant’s awful stillness. In that instant, it seemed to Gypsy as if she had lived a great many years; in that instant, even Sarah’s frightened cries were frozen.

Then the bushes parted, and some one sprang through. Gypsy knew the face all blackened and marred with powder—the face dearer to her than any on earth but her mother’s. So she had not killed him—thank God, thank God!

“Gypsy, child!” called the dear, familiar voice; “what ails you? You haven’t hurt me, but why in the name of all danger on this earth did you touch——”

But Tom stopped short; for Gypsy tottered up to him with such a white, weak look on her face, that he thought the rebound of the gun must have injured her, and caught her in his arms.

“You’re not going to faint! Where are you hurt?”

But Gypsy was not hurt, and Gypsy never fainted. She just put her arms about his neck and hid her face close upon his shoulder, and cried as if her heart would break.

It was a long time before she spoke,—only kissing him and clinging to him through her sobs,—then, at last,—

“Oh, Tom, I thought I had killed you—I thought—and I loved you so—oh, Tom!”

Tom choked a little, and sat down on the ground, holding her in his lap.

“Why, my little Gypsy!”

Just then footsteps came crashing through the underbrush, and Mr. Hallam ran hurriedly up.

“Oh, you’ve found them! Where were they? What has happened to Gypsy?”

“Let me go,” sobbed Gypsy; “I can’t talk just now. I want to go away and cry.”

She broke away from Tom’s arms, and into the tent, where she could be alone.

“What has happened?” repeated Mr. Hallam. “We came home in less than an hour, and couldn’t find you. We have been to Mr. Fisher’s, and hunted everywhere. I was calling for you in the gorge when Tom found you.”

Sarah was left to tell their story; which she did with remarkable justness, considering how frightened she was. She shared with Gypsy the blame of having left the tents, and insisted that it was her fault that the gun went off. Before the account was quite finished, Gypsy called Tom from the tent-door, and he went to her.

She was quiet, and very pale,

“Oh, Tom, I am so sorry! I didn’t think I should be gone so long.”

“It was very dangerous, Gypsy. You might have been lost, or you might have had to spend the night here alone, while we were hunting for you.”

“I know it, I know it; and Sarah was so frightened, and I was too, a little, and Sarah thought you were a bear.”

“I have told you a great many times that it is never safe for you to touch my gun,” said Tom, gravely. He felt that Gypsy’s carelessness might have brought about too terrible consequences, both to herself and to him, to be passed by lightly; and he had an idea that, as long as her mother was not there to tell her so, he must.

But Gypsy dropped her head, and looked so humble and wretched, that he had not the heart to say any more.

Gypsy was sure all the pleasure of her camping-out was utterly spoiled; but there was a bright sun the next morning, and Tom was so kind and pleasant, and the birds were singing, and the world didn’t look at all as if she had nearly killed her brother twelve hours before, so she found she was laughing in spite of herself, and two very happy days passed after that. Mr. Hallam made a rule that he or Tom should keep the girls constantly in sight, and that, during the time spent in excursions which they could not join, they should remain in Mr. Fisher’s house. He said it was too wild a place for them to be alone in for any length of time, and he was sorry he left them before.

Gypsy did not resent this strict tutelage. She was very humble and obedient and careful as long as they stayed upon the mountain. Those few moments, when she clung sobbing to Tom’s neck, were a lesson to her. She will not forget them as long as she lives.

At the end of the fourth day, just at supper time, a dark cloud sailed over the sky, and a faint wind blew from the east.

“I wonder if it’s going to rain,” said Mr. Hallam. They all looked up. Gypsy said nothing; in her secret heart, she hoped it would.

“What about sending the girls to Mrs. Fisher’s?” asked Tom, when they were washing the dishes.

“Oh, no, no, it won’t rain, I know—let us stay, Mr. Hallam, please. Why, I should feel like a deserter if I went off!” pleaded Gypsy.

The dark cloud seemed to have passed away, and the wind was still. After thinking a while, Mr. Hallam decided to let them stay.

In the middle of the night, Gypsy was awakened by a great noise. The wind was blowing a miniature hurricane through the trees, and the rain was falling in torrents. She could hear it spatter on the canvas roof, and drop from the poles, and gurgle in a stream through the ditch. She could hear, too, the loud, angry murmur of the trout brook and the splashing of hundreds of rivulets that dashed down the slope and over the gorge into it.

She gave Sarah a little pinch, and woke her up.

“Oh, Sarah, it’s come! It’s raining like everything, and here we are, and we can’t get to Mr. Fisher’s—isn’t it splendid?”

“Ye-es,” said Sarah; “it’s very splendid, only isn’t it a little—wet? It’s dropping right on my cheek.”

“Oh, that’s nothing—why, here I can put my hand right down into a puddle of water. It’s just like being at sea.”

“I know it. Are people at sea always so—cold?”

“Why, I’m not cold. Only we might as well wear our water-proofs. The leaves are a little damp.”

So they put on their tweed cloaks, and Gypsy listened to the wind, and thought it was very poetic and romantic, and that she was perfectly happy. And just as she had lain down again there came a great gust of rain, and one of the rivulets that were sweeping down the mountain splashed in under the canvas, and ran right through the middle of the tent like a brook. Sarah jumped up with energy.

“O—oh, it’s gone right over my feet!”

“My shoes are sailing away, as true as you live!” cried Gypsy, and sprang just in time to save them.

The dinner-basket and a tin pail were fast following, when Tom appeared upon the scene, and called through the wall of shawls,—

“Girls, you’ll have to go to Mrs. Fisher’s. Be quick as you can!”

“I don’t want to a bit,” said Gypsy, who was sitting in a pool of water.

“Well, I’m going,” announced Sarah, with unheard-of decision. “Camping out is very nice, but drowning is another thing.”

“Well—I—suppose it would be a—little—dryer,” said Gypsy, slowly.

The girls were soon dressed, and Tom lighted a lantern and went with them. A few peals of thunder growled sullenly down the valley, and one bright flash of lightning glared far through the forest. Sarah was afraid she should be struck. Gypsy was thinking how grand it was, and wished she could be out in a midnight storm every week.

It was after midnight, and every one at Mr. Fisher’s was asleep; but Tom knocked them up, and Mr. Fisher was very much amused, and Mrs. Fisher was very kind and hospitable, and built up a fire, and said they should be perfectly dry and warm before they went to bed.

So the girls bade Tom good-night, and he went back to Mr. Hallam, and they, feeling very cold and sleepy and drenched, were glad enough to be taken care of, and put to bed like babies, after Mrs. Fisher’s good, motherly fashion.

“Sarah,” said Gypsy, sleepily, just as Sarah was beginning to dream. “A feather-bed, and—and pillows! (with a little jump to keep awake long enough to finish her sentence) are a little better—on the whole—than a mud—pud——”

Just there she went to sleep. The next day it poured from morning till night. That was just what Mr. Hallam and Tom liked, so they fished all day, and the girls amused themselves as best they might in Mr. Fisher’s barn. The day after it rained in snatches, and the sun shone in little spasms between. A council of exigencies met in Mr. Hallam’s tent, and it was unanimously decided to go home. Even Gypsy began to long for civilized life, though she declared that she had never in all her life had such a good time as she had had that week.

So Mr. Fisher harnessed and drove them briskly down the mountain, and “from afar off” Gypsy saw her mother’s face, watching for her at the door—a little anxious; very glad to see her back.