The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poor Little Rich Girl, by Eleanor Gates

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Title: The Poor Little Rich Girl

Author: Eleanor Gates

Release Date: April 26, 2005 [EBook #15714]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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[Illustration: THIS WAS A NOVEL EXPERIENCE, THIS HAVING BOTH FATHER
AND MOTHER IN THE NURSERY AT THE SAME TIME]



The
POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL

by
ELEANOR GATES

[Illustration]

GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers NEW YORK




The Poor Little Rich Girl


CHAPTER I


Halfway up the shining surface of the gilt-framed pier glass was a
mark--a tiny ink-line that had been carefully drawn across the outer
edge of the wide bevel. As Gwendolyn stared at the line, the reflection
of her small face in the mirror grew suddenly all white, as if some rude
hand had reached out and brushed away the pink from cheeks and lips.
Arms rigid at her sides, and open palms pressed hard against the flaring
skirts of her riding-coat, she shrank back from the glass.

"Oo-oo!" she breathed, aghast. The gray eyes swam.

After a moment, however, she blinked resolutely to clear her sight,
stepped forward again, and, straightening her slender little figure to
its utmost height, measured herself a second time against the mirror.

But--as before--the top of her yellow head did not reach above the
ink-mark--not by the smallest part of an inch! So there was no longer
any reason to hope! The worst was true! She had drawn the tiny line
across the edge of the bevel the evening before, when she was only six
years old; now it was mid-morning of another day, and she was
seven--_yet she was not a whit taller!_

The tears began to overflow. She pressed her embroidered handkerchief to
her eyes. Then, stifling a sob, she crossed the nursery, stumbling once
or twice as she made toward the long cushioned seat that stretched the
whole width of the front window. There, among the down-filled pillows,
with her loose hair falling about her wet cheeks and screening them, she
lay down.

For months she had looked forward with secret longing to this seventh
anniversary. Every morning she had taken down the rose-embossed calendar
that stood on the top of her gold-and-white writing-desk and tallied off
another of the days that intervened before her birthday. And the
previous evening she had measured herself against the pier glass without
even a single misgiving.

She rose at an early hour. Her waking look was toward the pier glass.
Her one thought was to gauge her new height. But the morning was the
usual busy one. When Jane finished bathing and dressing her, Miss Royle
summoned her to breakfast. An hour in the school-room followed--an hour
of quiet study, but under the watchful eye of the governess. Next,
Gwendolyn changed her dressing-gown for a riding-habit, and with Jane
holding her by one small hand, and with Thomas following, stepped into
the bronze cage that dropped down so noiselessly from nursery floor to
wide entrance-hall. Outside, the limousine was waiting. She and Jane
entered it. Thomas took his seat beside the chauffeur. And in a moment
the motor was speeding away.

At the riding-school, her master gave her the customary lesson: She
circled the tanbark on her fat brown pony--now to the right, at a walk;
now to the left, at a trot; now back to the right again at a rattling
canter, with her yellow hair whipping her shoulders, and her
three-cornered hat working farther and farther back on her bobbing head,
and tugging hard at the elastic under her dimpled chin. After nearly an
hour of this walk, trot and canter she was very rosy, and quite out of
breath. Then she was put back into the limousine and driven swiftly
home. And it was not until after her arrival that she had a moment
entirely to herself, and the first opportunity of comparing her height
with the tiny ink-line on the edge of the mirror's bevel.

Now as she lay, face down, on the window-seat, she know how vain had
been all the longing of months. The realization, so sudden and
unexpected, was a blow. The slender little figure among the cushions
quivered under it.

But all at once she sat up. And disappointment and grief gave place to
apprehension. "I wonder what's the matter with me," she faltered aloud.
"Oh, something awful, I guess."

The next moment caution succeeded fear. She sprang to her feet and ran
across the room. That tell-tale mark was still on the mirror, for nurse
or governess to see and question. And it was advisable that no one
should learn the unhappy truth. Her handkerchief was damp with tears.
She gathered the tiny square of linen into a tight ball and rubbed at
the ink-line industriously.

She was not a moment too soon. Scarcely had she regained the
window-seat, when the hall door opened and Thomas appeared on the sill,
almost filling the opening with his tall figure. As a rule he wore his
very splendid footman's livery of dark blue coat with dull-gold buttons,
blue trousers, and striped buff waistcoat. Now he wore street clothes,
and he had a leash in his hand.

"Is Jane about, Miss Gwendolyn?" he inquired. Then, seeing that
Gwendolyn was alone, "Would you mind tellin' her when she comes that I'm
out takin' the Madam's dogs for a walk?"

Gwendolyn had a new thought. "A--a walk?" she repeated. And stood up.

"But tell Jane, if you please," continued he, "that I'll be back in time
to go--well, _she_ knows where." This was said significantly. He turned.

"Thomas!" Gwendolyn hastened across to him. "Wait till I put on my hat.
I'm--I'm going with you." Her riding-hat lay among the dainty
pink-and-white articles on her crystal-topped dressing-table. She caught
it up.

"Miss Gwendolyn!" exclaimed Thomas, astonished.

"I'm seven," declared Gwendolyn, struggling with the hat-elastic. "I'm
a whole year older than I was yesterday. And--and I'm grown-up."

An exasperating smile lifted Thomas's lip. "Oh, _are_ you!" he observed.

The hat settled, she met his look squarely. (Did he suspicion anything?)
"_Yes_. And you take the dogs out to walk. So"--she started to pass
him--"_I'm_ going to walk."

His hair was black and straight. Now it seemed fairly to bristle with
amazement. "I couldn't take you if you _was_ grown-up," he asserted
firmly, blocking her advance; "--leastways not without Miss Royle or
Jane'd say Yes. It'd be worth my job."

Gwendolyn lowered her eyes, stood a moment in indecision, then pulled
off the hat, tossed it aside, went back to the window, and sat down.

At one end of the seat, swung high on its gilded spring, danced the
dome-topped cage of her canary. Presently she raised her face to him. He
was traveling tirelessly from perch to cage-floor, from floor to trapeze
again. His wings were half lifted from his little body--the bright
yellow of her own hair. It was as if he were ready for flight. His round
black eyes were constantly turned toward the world beyond the window. He
perked his head inquiringly, and cheeped. Now and then, with a wild
beating of his pinions, he sprang sidewise to the shining bars of the
cage, and hung there, panting.

She watched him for a time; made a slow survey of the nursery next,--and
sighed.

"Poor thing!" she murmured.

She heard the rustle of silk skirts from the direction of the
school-room. Hastily she shook out the embroidered handkerchief and put
it against her eyes.

A door opened. "There will be no lessons this afternoon, Gwendolyn." It
was Miss Royle's voice.

Gwendolyn did not speak. But she lowered the handkerchief a trifle--and
noted that the governess was dressed for going out--in a glistening
black silk plentifully ornamented with jet _paillettes_.

Miss Royle rustled her way to the pier-glass to have a last look at her
bonnet. It was a poke, with a quilted ribbon circling its brim, and some
lace arranged fluffily. It did not reach many inches above the spot
where Gwendolyn had drawn the ink-line, for Miss Royle was small. When
she had given the poke a pat here and a touch there, she leaned forward
to get a better view of her face. She had a pale, thin face and thin
faded hair. On either side of a high bony nose were set her pale-blue
eyes. Shutting them in, and perched on the thinnest part of her nose,
were silver-circled spectacles.

"I'm very glad I can give you a half-holiday, dear," she went on. But
her tone was somewhat sorrowful. She detached a small leaf of paper from
a tiny book in her hand-bag and rubbed it across her forehead. "For my
neuralgia is _much_ worse to-day." She coughed once or twice behind a
lisle-gloved hand, snapped the clasp of her hand-bag and started toward
the hall door.

It was now that for the first time she looked at Gwendolyn--and caught
sight of the bowed head, the grief-flushed cheeks, the suspended
handkerchief. She stopped short.

"Gwendolyn!" she exclaimed, annoyed. "I _hope_ you're not going to be
cross and troublesome, and make it impossible for me to have a couple of
hours to myself this afternoon--especially when I'm suffering." Then,
coaxingly, "You can amuse yourself with one of your nice pretend-games,
dear."

From under long up-curling lashes Gwendolyn regarded her in silence.

"I've planned to lunch out," went on Miss Royle. "But you won't mind,
_will_ you, dear Gwendolyn?" plaintively. "For I'll be back at tea-time.
And besides"--growing brighter--"you're to have--what do you think!--the
birthday cake Cook has made."

"I _hate_ cake!" burst out Gwendolyn; and covered her eyes once more.

"_Gwen-do-lyn!_" breathed Miss Royle.

Gwendolyn sat very still.

"How _can_ you be so naughty! Oh, it's really wicked and ungrateful of
you to be fretting and complaining--you who have _so_ many blessings!
But you don't appreciate them because you've always had them.
Well,"--mournfully solicitous--"I trust they'll never be taken from you,
my child. Ah, _I_ know how bitter such a loss is! I haven't _always_
been in my present circumstances, compelled to go out among strangers to
earn a scant living. Once--"

Here she was interrupted. The door from the school-room swung wide with
a bang. Gwendolyn, looking up, saw her nurse.

Jane was in sharp contrast to Miss Royle--taller and stocky, with broad
shoulders and big arms. As she halted against the open school-room door,
her hair was as ruddy as the panel that made a background for it. And
she had reddish eyes, and a full round face. In the midst of her face,
and all out of proportion to it, was her short turned-up nose, which was
plentifully sprinkled with freckles.

"So you're goin' out?" she began angrily, addressing the governess.

Miss Royle retreated a step. "Just for a--a couple of hours," she
explained.

Jane's face grew almost as red as her hair. Slamming the school-room
door behind her, she advanced. "I suppose it's the neuralgia again," she
suggested with quiet heat.

The color stole into Miss Royle's pale cheeks. She coughed. "It _is_ a
little worse than usual this afternoon," she admitted.

"I thought so," said Jane. "It's always worse--_on bargain-days_."

"How _dare_ you!"

"You ask me that, do you?--you old snake-in-the-grass!" Now Jane grew
pallid with anger.

Gwendolyn, listening, contemplated her governess thoughtfully. She had
often heard her pronounced a snake-in-the-grass.

Miss Royle was also pale. "That will do!" she declared. "I shall report
you to Madam."

"Report!" echoed Jane, giving a loud, harsh laugh, and shaking her
hair--the huge pompadour in front, the pug behind. "Well, go ahead. And
I'll report _you_--and your handy neuralgia."

"It's your duty to look after Gwendolyn when there are no lessons,"
reminded Miss Royle, but weakening noticeably.

"On _week_-days?" shrilled Jane. "Oh, don't try to fool me with any of
your schemin'! _I_ see. And I just laugh in my sleeve!"

Gwendolyn fixed inquiring gray eyes upon that sleeve of Jane's dress
which was the nearer. It was of black sateen. It fitted the stout arm
sleekly.

"This is the dear child's birthday, and I wish her to have the afternoon
free."

"A-a-ah! Then why don't you take her out with you? You like the
auto_mo_bile nice enough,"--this sneeringly.

Miss Royle tossed her head. "I thought perhaps _you'd_ be using the
car," she answered, with fine sarcasm.

Jane began to argue, throwing out both hands: "How was _I_ to know
to-day was her birthday? You might've told me about it; instead, just
all of a sudden, you shove her off on my hands."

Gwendolyn's eyes narrowed resentfully.

Miss Royle gave a quick look toward the window-seat. "You mean you've
made plans?" she asked, concern supplanting anger in her voice.

To all appearances Jane was near to tears. She did not answer. She
nodded dejectedly.

"Well, Jane, you shall have to-morrow afternoon," declared Miss Royle,
soothingly. "Is _that_ fair? I didn't know you'd counted on to-day.
So--" Here another glance shot window-ward. Then she beckoned Jane. They
went into the hall. And Gwendolyn heard them whispering together.

When Jane came back into the nursery she looked almost cheerful. "Now
off with that habit," she called to Gwendolyn briskly. "And into
something for your dinner."

"I want to wear a plaid dress," announced Gwendolyn, getting down from
her seat slowly.

Jane was selecting a white muslin from a tall wardrobe. "Little girls
ain't wearin' plaids this year," she declared shortly. "Come."

"Well, then, I want a dress that's got a pocket," went on Gwendolyn,
"--a pocket 'way down on this side." She touched the right skirt of her
riding-coat.

"They ain't makin' pockets in little girls' dresses this year," said
Jane, "Come! Come!"

"'They,'" repeated Gwendolyn. "Who are 'They'? I'd like to know; 'cause
I could telephone 'em and--"

"Hush your nonsense!" bade Jane. Then, catching at the delicate square
of linen in Gwendolyn's hand, "How'd you git ink smeared over your
handkerchief? What do you suppose your mamma'd say if she was to come
upon it? _I'd_ be blamed--_as_ usual!"

"Who are They'?" persisted Gwendolyn. "'They' do so _many_ things. And I
want to tell 'em that I like pockets in _all_ my dresses."

Jane ignored the question.

"Yesterday you said 'They' would send us soda-water," went on
Gwendolyn--talking to herself now, rather than to the nurse. "And I'd
like to know where 'They' _find_ soda-water." Whereupon she fell to
pondering the question. Evidently this, like many another propounded to
Jane or Miss Royle; to Thomas; to her music-teacher, Miss Brown; to
Mademoiselle Du Bois, her French teacher; and to her teacher of German,
was one that was meant to remain a secret of the grown-ups.

Jane, having unbuttoned the riding-coat, pulled at the small black
boots. She was also talking to herself, for her lips moved.

The moment Gwendolyn caught sight of her unshod feet, she had a new
idea--the securing of a long-denied privilege by urging the occasion.
"Oh, Jane," she cried. "May I go barefoot?--just for a _little_ while. I
want to." Jane stripped off the cobwebby stockings. Gwendolyn wriggled
her ten pink toes. "May I, Jane?"

"You can go barefoot to _bed_," said Jane.

Gwendolyn's bed stood midway of the nursery, partly hidden by a high
tapestried screen. It was a beautiful bed, carved and enamelled, and
panelled--head and foot--with woven cane. But to Gwendolyn it was, by
day, a white instrument of torture. She gave it a glance of disfavor
now, and refrained from pursuing her idea.

When the muslin dress was donned, and a pink satin hair-bow replaced the
black one that bobbed on Gwendolyn's head when she rode, she returned to
the window and sat down. The seat was deep, and her shiny patent-leather
slippers stuck straight out in front of her. In one hand she held a
fresh handkerchief. She nibbled at it thoughtfully. She was still
wondering about "They."

Thomas looked cross when he came in to serve her noon dinner. He
arranged the table with a jerk and a bang.

"So old Royle up and outed, did she?" he said to Jane.

"Hush!" counseled Jane, significantly, and rolled her eyes in the
direction of the window-seat.

Gwendolyn stopped nibbling her handkerchief.

"And our plans is spoiled," went on Thomas. "Well, ain't that our luck!
And I suppose you couldn't manage to leave a certain party--"

Gwendolyn had been watching Thomas. Now she fell to observing the silver
buckles on her slippers. She might not know who "They" were. But "a
certain party"--

"Leave?" repeated Jane, "Who with? Not alone, surely you don't mean. For
something's gone wrong already to-day, as you'll see if you'll use your
eyes. And a fuss or a howl'd mean that somebody'd hear, and tattle to
the Madam, and--"

Thomas said something under his breath.

"So we can't go after all," resumed Jane; "--leastways not like we'd
counted on. And it's _too_ exasperatin'. Here I am, a person that likes
my freedom once in a while, and a glimpse at the shop-windows,--exactly
as much as old you-know-who does--and a bit of tea afterwards with a--a
friend."

At this point, Gwendolyn glanced up--just in time to see Thomas
regarding Jane with a broad grin. And Jane was smiling back at him, her
face so suffused with blushes that there was not a freckle to be seen.

Now Jane sighed, and stood looking down with hands folded. "What good
does it do to talk, though," she observed sadly. "Day in and day out,
day _in_ and day out, I have to dance attendance."

It was Gwendolyn's turn to color. She got down quickly and came forward.

"Sh!" warned Thomas. He busied himself with laying the silver.

Gwendolyn halted in front of Jane, and lifted a puzzled face. "But--but,
Jane," she began defensively, "you don't ever _dance_."

"Now, whatever do you think I was talkin' about?" demanded Jane,
roughly. "You dance, don't you, at Monsoor Tellegen's, of a Saturday
afternoon? Well, so do I when I get a' evenin' off,--which isn't often,
as you well know, Miss. And now your dinner's ready. So eat it, without
any more clackin'."

Gwendolyn climbed upon the plump rounding seat of a white-and-gold
chair.

Jane settled down nearby, choosing an upholstered arm-chair--spacious,
comfort-giving. She lolled in it, at ease but watchful.

"You can't think how that old butler spies on me," said Thomas,
addressing her. "He seen the tray when I put it on the dumb-waiter.
And, 'Miss Royle is havin' her lunch out,' he says. Then would you
_believe_ it, he took more'n half my dishes away!"

Jane giggled. "Potter's a sharp one," she declared. "But, oh, you
should've been behind a door just now when you-know-who and I had a
little understandin'."

"Eh?" he inquired, working his black brows excitedly. "How was that?"

Gwendolyn went calmly on with her mutton-broth. She already knew each
detail of the forth-coming recital.

"Well," began Jane, "she played her usual trick of startin' off without
so much as a word to me, and I just up and give her a tongue-lashin'."

Gwendolyn's spoon paused half way to her expectant pink mouth. She
stared at Jane. "Oh, I didn't see that," she exclaimed regretfully.
"Jane, what is a tongue-lashing?"

Jane sat up. "A tongue-lashin'," said she, "is what _you_ need, young
lady. Look at the way you've spilled your soup! Take it, Thomas, and
serve the rest of the dinner, I ain't goin' to allow you to be at the
table _all_ day, Miss.... There, Thomas! That'll be all the minced
chicken she can have."

"But I took just one little spoonful," protested Gwendolyn, earnestly.
"I wanted more, but Thomas held it 'way up, and--"

"Do you want to be sick?" demanded Jane. "And have a doctor come?"

Gwendolyn raised frightened eyes. A doctor had been called once in the
dim past, when she was a baby, racked by colic and budding teeth. She
did not remember him. But since the era of short clothes she had been
mercifully spared his visits. "N-n-no!" she faltered.

"Well, you look out or I'll git one on the 'phone. And you'll be sorry
_the rest of your life_.... Take the chicken away, Thomas. 'Out of sight
is'--you know the sayin'. (It's a pity there ain't some way to keep it
hot.)"

"A bit of cold fowl don't go so bad," said Thomas, reassuringly. And to
Gwendolyn, "Here's more of the potatoes souffles, Miss Gwendolyn,--_very_
tasty and fillin'."

Gwendolyn put up a hand and pushed the proffered dish aside.

"Now, no temper," warned Jane, rising. "Too much meat ain't good for
children. Your mamma herself would say that. Come! See that nice
potatoes and cream gravy on your plate. And there you set cryin'!"

Thomas had an idea. "Shall I fetch the cake?" he asked in a loud
whisper.

Jane nodded.

He disappeared--to reappear at once with a round frosted cake that had a
border of pink icing upon its glazed white top. And set within the
circle of the border were seven pink candles, all alight.

"Oh, look! Look!" cried Jane, excitedly, pulling Gwendolyn's hand away
from her eyes. "Isn't it a beautiful cake! You shall have a bi-i-ig
piece."

Those seven small candles dispelled the gloom. With tears on her cheeks,
but all eager and smiling once more, Gwendolyn blew the candles out. And
as she bent forward to puff at each tiny one, Jane held her bright hair
back, for fear that a strand might get too near a flame.

"Oh, Jane," cried Gwendolyn, "when I blow like that, _where_ do all the
little lights go?"

"Did you ever _hear_ such a question?" exclaimed Jane, appealing to
Thomas.

He was cutting away at the cake. "Of course, Miss, you'd like _me_ to
have a bite of this," he said. "You know it was me that reminded Cook
about bakin'--"

"Perhaps all the little lights go up under the big lamp-shade," went on
Gwendolyn, too absorbed to listen to Thomas. "And make a big light." She
started to get down from her chair to investigate.

"Now look here," said Jane irritably, "you'll just finish your dinner
before you leave the table. Here's your cake. _Eat_ it!"

Gwendolyn ate her slice daintily, using a fork.

Jane also ate a slice--holding it in her fingers. "There's ways of
managin' a fairly jolly afternoon," she said from the depths of the
arm-chair.

"You're speakin' of--er--?" asked Thomas, picking up cake crumbs with a
damp finger-tip.

"Uh-huh."

"A certain party would have to go along," he reminded.

"_Of_ course. But a ride's better'n nothin'."

"Shall I telephone for--?" Thomas brought a finger-bowl.

Gwendolyn stood up. A ride meant the limousine, with its screening top
and little windows. The limousine meant a long, tiresome run at good
speed through streets that she longed to travel afoot, slowly, with a
stop here and a stop there, and a poke into things in general.

Her crimson cheeks spoke rebellion. "I want a walk this afternoon," she
declared emphatically.

"Use your finger-bowl," said Jane. "Can't you _never_ remember your
manners?"

"I'm seven to-day," Gwendolyn went on, the tips of her fingers in the
small basin of silver while her face was turned to Jane. "I'm seven
and--and I'm grown-up."

"And you're splashin' water on the table-cloth. Look at you!"

"So," went on Gwendolyn, "I'm going to walk. I haven't walked for a
whole, whole week."

"You can lean back in the car," began Jane enthusiastically, "and
pretend you're a grand little Queen!"

"I don't _want_ to be a Queen. I want to _walk_.

"Rich little girls don't hike along the streets like common poor little
girls," informed Jane.

"I don't _want_ to be a rich little girl,"--voice shrill with
determination.

Jane went to shake her frilled apron into the gilded waste-basket beside
Gwendolyn's writing-desk. "You can telephone any time now, Thomas," she
said calmly.

Gwendolyn turned upon Thomas. "But I don't _want_ to be shut up in the
car this afternoon," she cried. "And I won't! I _won't!_ I WON'T!"

Jane gave a gasp of smothered rage. The reddish eyes blazed. "Do you
want me to send for a great black bear?" she demanded.

At that Gwendolyn quailed. "No-o-o!"

Jane shot a glance toward Thomas. It invited suggestion.

"Let her take something along," he said under his breath, nodding
toward a glass-fronted case of shelves that stood opposite Gwendolyn's
bed.

Each shelf of the case was covered with toys. Along one sat a line of
daintily clad dolls--black-haired dolls; golden-haired dolls; dolls from
China, with slanted eyes and a queue; dolls from Japan, in gayly figured
kimonos; Dutch dolls--a boy and a girl; a French doll in an exquisite
frock; a Russian; an Indian; a Spaniard. A second shelf held a shiny
red-and-black peg-top, a black wooden snake beside its lead-colored
pipe-like case; a tin soldier in an English uniform--red coat, and
pill-box cap held on by a chin-strap; a second uniformed tin man who
turned somersaults, but in repose stood upon his head; a black dog on
wheels, with great floppy ears; and a half-dozen downy ducklings
acquired at Easter.

"Much good takin' anything'll do!" grumbled Jane. Then, plucking crossly
at a muslin sleeve, "Well, what do you want? Your French doll? Speak
up!"

"I don't want anything," asserted Gwendolyn, "--long as I can't have my
Puffy Bear any more." There was a wide vacant place beside the dog with
the large ears.

"The little beast got shabby," explained Thomas, "and I was compelled to
throw him away along with the old linen-hamper. Like as not some poor
little child has him now."

She considered the statement, gray eyes wistful. Then, "I liked him,"
she said huskily. "He was old and squashy, and it wouldn't hurt him to
walk up the Drive, right in the path where the horses go. The dirt is
loose there, like it was in the road at Johnnie Blake's in the country.
I could scuff it with my shoes."

"You could scuff it and I could wear myself out cleanin', I suppose,"
retorted Jane. "And like as not run the risk of gittin' some bad germs
on my hands, and dyin' of 'em. From what Rosa says, it was downright
_shameful_ the way you muddied your clothes, and tore 'em, and messed in
the water after nasty tad-poles that week you was up country. _I_ won't
allow you to treat your beautiful dresses like that, or climb about, or
let the hot sun git at you."

"I'm going to _walk_."

Silence; but silence palpitant with thought. Then Jane threw up her
head--as if seized with an inspiration. "You're going to walk?" said
she. "All right! _All_ right! Walk if you want to." She made as if to
set out. "_Go_ ahead! But, my _dear_," (she dropped her voice in fear)
"you'll no more'n git to the next corner when _somebody'll steal you!_"

Gwendolyn was silent for a long moment. She glanced from Jane to Thomas,
from Thomas to Jane, and crooked her fingers in and out of her twisted
handkerchief.

"But, Jane," she said finally, "the dogs go out walking--and--and nobody
steals the dogs."

"Hear the silly child!" cried Jane. "Nobody steals the dogs! Why, if
anybody was to steal the dogs what good would it do 'em? They're only
Pomeranians anyhow, and Madam could go straight out and buy more.
Besides, like as not Pomeranians won't be stylish next year, and so
Madam wouldn't care two snaps. She'd go buy the latest thing in
poodles, or else a fine collie, or a spaniel or a Spitz."

"But other little girls walk all the time," insisted Gwendolyn, "and
nobody steals _them_."

Jane crossed her knees, pursed her mouth and folded her arms. "Well,
Thomas," she said, shaking her head, "I guess after all that I'll have
to tell her."

"Ah, yes, I suppose so," agreed Thomas. His tone was funereal.

Gwendolyn looked from one to the other.

"I haven't wanted to," continued Jane, dolefully. "_You_ know that. But
now she forces me to do it. Though I'm as sorry as sorry can be."

Thomas had just taken his portion of cake in one great mouthful. "Fo'm
my," he chimed in.

Gwendolyn looked concerned. "But I'm seven," she reiterated.

"Seven?" said Jane. "What has that got to do with it? _Age_ don't
matter."

Gwendolyn did not flinch.

"You said nobody steals other little girls," went on Jane. "It ain't
true. Poor little girls and boys, _no_body steals. You can see 'em
runnin' around loose everywheres. But it's different when a little
girl's papa is made of money."

"So much money," added Thomas, "that it fairly makes me palm itch."
Whereat he fell to rubbing one open hand against a corner of the piano.

Gwendolyn reflected a moment. Then, "But my fath-er isn't made of
money,"--she lingered a little, tenderly, over the word father,
pronouncing it as if it were two words. "I _know_ he isn't. When I was
at Johnnie Blake's cottage, we went fishing, and fath-er rolled up his
sleeves. And his arms were strong; and red, like Jane's."

Thomas sniggered.

But Jane gestured impatiently. Then, making scared eyes, "What has that
_got to do_," she demanded, "_with the wicked men that keep watch of
this house?_"

Gwendolyn swallowed. "What wicked men?" she questioned apprehensively.

"Ah-ha!" triumphed Jane. "I _thought_ that'd catch you! Now just let me
ask you another question: _Why are there bars on the basement windows?_"

Gwendolyn's lips parted to reply. But no words came.

"You don't know," said Jane. "But I'll tell you something: There ain't
no bars on the windows where _poor_ little girls live. For the simple
reason that nobody wants to steal _them_."

Gwendolyn considered the statement, her fingers still busy knotting and
unknotting.

"I tell you," Jane launched forth again, "that if you run about on the
street, like poor children do, you'll be grabbed up by a band of
kidnapers."

"Are--are kidnapers worse than doctors?" asked Gwendolyn.

"Worse than doctors!" scoffed Thomas, "_Heaps_ worse."

"Worse than--than bears?" (The last trace of that rebellious red was
gone.)

Up and down went Jane's head solemnly. "Kidnapers carry knives--big
curved knives."

Now Gwendolyn recalled a certain terror-inspiring man with a long belted
coat and a cap with a shiny visor. It was not his height that made her
fear him, for her father was fully as tall; and it was not his
brass-buttoned coat, or the dark, piercing eyes under the visor. She
feared him because Jane had often threatened her with his coming; and,
secondly, because he wore, hanging from his belt, a cudgel--long and
heavy and thick. How that cudgel glistened in the sunlight as it swung
to and fro by a thong!

"Worse than a--a p'liceman?" she faltered.

"Policeman? _Yes!_"

"Than the p'liceman that's--that's always hanging around here?"

Now Jane giggled, and blushed as red as her hair. "Hush!" she chided.

Thomas poked a teasing finger at her. "Haw! Haw!" he laughed. "There's
other people that's noticed a policeman hangin' round. _He's_ a dandy,
he is!--_not_. He let that old hand organ man give him a black eye."

"Pooh!" retorted Jane. "You know how much I care about that policeman!
It's only that I like to have him handy for just such times as this."

But Gwendolyn was dwelling on the newly discovered scourge of moneyed
children. "What would the kidnapers do?" she inquired.

"The kidnapers," promptly answered Jane, "would take you and shut you up
in a nasty cellar, where there was rats and mice and things and--"

Gwendolyn's mouth began to quiver.

Hastily Jane put out a hand. "But we'll look sharp that nothin' of the
kind happens," she declared stoutly; "for who can git you when you're in
the car--_especially_ when Thomas is along to watch out. So"--with a
great show of enthusiasm--"we'll go out, oh! for a _grand_ ride." She
rose. "And maybe when we git into the country a ways, we'll invite
Thomas to take the inside seat opposite," (another wink) "and he'll tell
you about soldierin' in India, and camps, and marches, and shootin'
elephants."

"Aren't there kidnapers in the country, too?" asked Gwendolyn. "I--I
guess I'd rather stay home."

"You won't see 'em in the country this time of day," explained Jane.
"They're all in town, huntin' rich little children. So on with the sweet
new hat and a pretty coat!" She opened the door of the wardrobe.

Gwendolyn did not move. But as she watched Jane the gray eyes filled
with tears, which overflowed and trickled slowly down her cheeks.
"If--if Thomas walked along with us," she began, "could--could anybody
steal me then?"

Jane was taking out coat, hat and gloves. "What would kidnapers care
about _Thomas?_" she demanded contemptuously. "_Sure_, they'd steal you,
and then they'd say to your father, 'Give! me a million dollars in cash
if you want Miss Gwendolyn back.' And if your father didn't give the
money on the spot, you'd be sold to gipsies, or--or _Chinamen_."

But Gwendolyn persisted. "Thomas has killed el'phunts," she reminded.
"Are--are kidnapers worse than el'phunts?" She drew on her gloves.

Jane sat down and held out the coat. It was of velvet. "Now be still!"
she commanded roughly. "You'll go in the machine if you go at _all_. Do
you hear that?"--giving Gwendolyn a half-turn-about that nearly upset
her. "Do you think I'm goin' to trapse over the hard pavements on my
poor, tired feet just because _you_ take your notions?"

Gwendolyn began to cry--softly. "Oh, I--I thought I wouldn't ever have
to ride again wh-when I was seven," she faltered, putting one
white-gloved hand to her eyes.

"Stop that!" commanded Jane, again, "Dirtyin' your gloves, you wasteful
little thing!"

Now the big sobs came. Down went the yellow head.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" said Thomas. "Little _ladies_ never cry."

"Walk! walk! walk!" scolded Jane, kneeling, and preparing to adjust the
new hat.

The hat had wide ribbons that tied under the chin--new, stiff ribbons.

"Johnnie Bu-Blake didn't fasten _his_ hat on like this," wept
Gwendolyn. She moved her chin from side to side. "He just had a--a
sh-shoe-string."

Jane had finished. "Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake!" she
mocked. She gave Gwendolyn a little push toward the front window. "Now,
no more of your nonsense. Go and be quiet for a few minutes. And keep a'
eye out, will you, to see that there's nobody layin' in wait for us out
in front?"

Gwendolyn went forward to the window-seat and climbed up among its
cushions. From there she looked down upon the Drive with its sloping,
evenly-cut grass, its smooth, tawny road and soft brown bridle-path, and
its curving walk, stone-walled on the outer side. Beyond park and road
and walk were tree-tops, bush-high above the wall. And beyond these was
the broad, slow-flowing river, with boats going to and fro upon its
shimmering surface. The farther side of the river was walled like the
walk, only the wall was a cliff, sheer and dark and timber-edged. And
through this timber could be seen the roofs and chimneys of distant
houses.

But Gwendolyn saw nothing of the beauty of the view. She did not even
glance down to where, on its pedestal, stood the great bronze war-horse,
its mane and tail flying, its neck arched, its lips curved to neigh.
Astride the horse was her friend, the General, soldierly, valorous, his
hat doffed--as if in silent greeting to the double procession of
vehicles and pedestrians that was passing before him. Brave he might be,
but what help was the General _now?_

When Jane was ready for the drive, Gwendolyn took a firm hold of one
thick thumb. And, with Thomas following, they were soon in the entrance
hall. There, waiting as usual, was Potter, the butler. He smiled at
Gwendolyn.

But Gwendolyn did not smile in return. As the cage had sunk swiftly down
the long shaft, her heart had sunk, too. And now she thought how old
Potter was; how thin and stooped. With kidnapers about, was _he_ a fit
guardian for the front door? As Potter swung wide the heavy grille of
wrought iron, with its silk-hung back of plate-glass, Gwendolyn pulled
hard at Jane's hand, and went down the granite steps and across the
sidewalk as quickly as possible, with a timid glance to right and left.
For, even as she entered the car, might not that band of knife-men
suddenly catch sight of her, and, rushing over walk and bridle-path and
roadway, seize her and carry her off?

She sank, trembling, upon the seat of the limousine.

Jane followed her. Then Thomas closed the windowed door of the motor and
took his place beside the chauffeur.

Gwendolyn leaned forward for a swift glance at the lower windows, barred
against intruders. The great house was of stone. On side and rear it
stood flat against other houses. But it was built on a corner; and along
its front and outer side, the tops of the basement windows were set a
foot or more above the level of the sidewalk. To Gwendolyn those windows
were huge eyes, peering out at her from under heavy lashes of iron.

The automobile started. Jane arranged her skirts and leaned back
luxuriously, her big hands folded on her lap.

"My! but ain't this grand!" she exclaimed. Then to Gwendolyn: "You
don't mind, do you, dearie, if Jane has a taste of gum as we go along?"

Gwendolyn did not reply. She had not heard. She was leaning toward the
little window on her side of the limousine. In front of Jane was the
chauffeur, wide-backed and skillful, and crouched vigilantly over his
wheel. But in front of her was Thomas, sitting in the proudly erect,
stiff position peculiar to him whenever he fared abroad. He looked
neither to right nor left. He seemed indifferent that danger lurked for
her along the Drive.

But she--! As the limousine joined others, all speeding forward merrily,
her pale little face was pressed against the shield-shaped pane of
glass, her frightened eyes roved continually, searching the moving
crowds.




CHAPTER II


The nursery was on the top-most floor of the great stone house--this for
sunshine and air. But the sunshine was gone when Gwendolyn returned from
her drive, and a half-dozen silk-shaded lights threw a soft glow over
the room. To shut out the chill of the spring evening the windows were
down. Across them were drawn the heavy hangings of rose brocade.

There was a lamp on the larger of the nursery tables, a tall lamp,
almost flower-like with its petal-shaped ruffles of lace and chiffon. It
made conspicuous two packages that flanked it--one small and square; the
other large, and as round as a hat-box. Each was wrapped in white paper
and tied with red string.

"Birthday presents!" cried Jane, the moment she spied them; and sprang
forward. "Oh, I wonder what they are! What do _you_ guess, Gwendolyn?"

Gwendolyn followed slowly, blinking against the light. "I can't guess,"
she said without enthusiasm. The glass-fronted case was full of toys,
none of which she particularly cherished. (Indeed, most of them were
carefully wrapped from sight.) New ones would merely form an addition.

"Well, what would you _like?_" queried Jane, catching up the small
package and shaking it.

Gwendolyn suddenly looked very earnest.

"Most in the whole _world?_" she asked.

"Yes, what?" Jane dropped the small package and shook the large one.

"In the whole, whole big world?" went on Gwendolyn--to herself rather
than to her nurse. She was not looking at the table, but toward a
curtained window, and the gray eyes had a tender faraway expression.
There was a faint conventional pattern in the brocade of the heavy
hangings. It suggested trees with graceful down-growing boughs. She
clasped her hands. "I want to live out in the woods," she said, "at
Johnnie Blake's cottage by the stream that's got fish in it."

Jane set the big package down with a thump. "That's _awful_ selfish of
you," she declared warmly. "For you know right well that Thomas and _I_
wouldn't like to leave the city and live away out in the country.
_Would_ we, Thomas?"--for he had just entered.

"Cer-tain-ly _not_," said Thomas.

"And it'd give poor Miss Royle the neuralgia," (Jane and Miss Royle
might contend with each other; they made common cause against _her_.)

"But none of you'd _have_ to" assured Gwendolyn. "When I was at Johnnie
Blake's that once, just Potter went, and Rosa, and Cook. And Rosa
buttoned my dresses and gave me my bath, and--"

"So Rosa'll do _just_ as well as me," interrupted Jane, jealously.

"--And Potter passed the dishes at table," resumed Gwendolyn, ignoring
the remark; "and _he_ never hurried the best-tasting ones."

"Hear that will you, Thomas!" cried Jane. "Mr. _Potter_ never hurried
the best-tastin' ones!"

Thomas gave her a significant stare. "I tell you, a certain person is
growin' keen," he said in a low voice.

Jane took Gwendolyn by the arm. "Put all that Johnnie Blake nonsense out
of your head," she commanded. "Folks that live in the woods don't know
nothin'. They're silly and pokey."

Gwendolyn shook her head with deliberation. "Johnny Blake wasn't pokey,"
she denied. "He had a willow fishpole, and a string tied to it. And he
caught shiny fishes on the end of the string."

"Johnnie Blake!" sniffed Jane. "Oh, I know all about _him_. Rosa told
me. He's a common, poor little boy. And"--severely--"I, for _one_, can't
see why you was ever allowed to play with him!...

"Now, darlin',"--softening--"here we stand fussin', and you ain't even
guessed what your presents are. Guess something that's real fine:
something you'd like in the city, pettie." She began to unwrap the
larger of the packages.

"Oh," said Gwendolyn. "What I'd like in the _city_. Well,"--suddenly
between her brows there came a curious, strained little wrinkle--"I'd
like--"

The white paper fell away. A large, round box was disclosed. To it was
tied a small card.

"This is from your papa!" cried Jane. "Oh, let's see what it is!"

The wrinkle smoothed. A smile broke,--like sudden sunlight after clouds,
and shadow. Then there poured forth all that had filled her heart during
the past months:

"I'd like to eat at the grown-up table with my fath-er and my moth-er,"
she declared; "and I don't want to have a nurse any more like a baby!
and I want to go to _day_-school."

Jane gasped, and her big hands fell from the round box. Thomas stared,
and reddened even to his ears, which were large and over-prominent. To
both, the project cherished so long and constantly was in the nature of
a bombshell.

"Oh-ho!" said Jane, recovering herself after a moment. "So me and Thomas
are to be thrown out of our jobs, are we?"

Gwendolyn looked mild surprise. "But you don't _like_ to be here," she
reminded. "And you and Thomas wouldn't have to work any more; you could
just play all the time." She smiled up at them encouragingly.

Thomas eyed Jane. "If we ain't careful," he warned in a low voice, "and
let a certain party talk too much at headquarters--"

The other nodded, comprehending "I'll look sharp," she promised. "Royle
will, too." Whereupon, with a forced change to gayety, and a toss of the
white card aside, she lifted the cover of the box and peeked in.

It was a merry-go-round, canopied in gay stripes, and built to
accommodate a party of twelve dolls. There were six deep seats, each
lined with ruby plush, for as many lady dolls: There were six prancing
Arab steeds--bay and chestnut and dappled gray--for an equal number of
men. A small handle turned to wind up the merry-go-round. Whereupon the
seats revolved gayly, the Arabs curvetted; and from the base of the
stout canopy pole there sounded a merry tune.

"Oh, darlin', what a grand thing!" cried Jane, lifting Gwendolyn to
stand on the rounding seat of a white-and-gold chair (a position at
other times strictly forbidden). "And what a pile of money it must've
cost! Why, it's as natural as the big one in the Park!"

The music and the horses appealed. Other considerations moved
temporarily into the background as Gwendolyn watched and listened.

Thomas broke the string of the smaller package. "This is the Madam's
present," he declared. "And I'll warrant it's a beauty!"

It proved a surprise. All paper shorn away, there stood revealed a green
cabbage, topped by something fluffy and hairy and snow-white. This was a
rabbit's head. And when Thomas had turned a key in the base of the
cabbage, the rabbit gave a sudden hop, lifted a pair of long ears,
munched at a bit of cabbage-leaf, turned his pink nose, now to the
right, now to the left, and rolled two amber eyes.

"And look! Look!" shouted Jane "The eyes light up" For each was glowing
as yellowly as the tiny electric bulbs on either side of Gwendolyn's
dressing-table.

"Now what _more_ could a little lady want!" exclaimed Thomas. "It's as
wonderful, _I_ say, as a wax figger."

The rabbit, with a sharp click of farewell, popped back into the
cabbage. Gwendolyn got down from the chair.

"It _is_ nice," she conceded. "And I'm going to ask fath-er and moth-er
to come up and see it."

Neither Thomas nor Jane answered. But again he eyed the nurse, this time
flashing a silent warning. After which she began to exclaim excitedly
over the rabbit, while he wound up the merry-go-round. Then the ruby
seats and the Arabs careened in a circle, the music played, the rabbit
chewed and wriggled and rolled his luminous eyes.

An interruption came in the shape of a ring at the telephone, which
stood on the small table at the head of Gwendolyn's bed. Jane answered
the summons, and received the message,--a brief one. It worked, however,
a noticeable change. For when Jane turned round her face was sullen.

Gwendolyn remarked the scowls. Also the fact that the moment Jane made
Thomas her confidant--in an undertone--he showed plain signs of being
annoyed. Gwendolyn saw the merry-go-round--cabbage and all--disappear
into the large, round box without a trace of regret. So much ill-feeling
on the part of nurse and man-servant undoubtedly meant that something
of a decidedly pleasant nature was about to happen to herself.

It was a usual--almost a daily--occurrence for her to visit the region
of the grown-ups at the dinner-hour. On such occasions she saw one,
though more often both, of her parents--as well as a varying number of
guests. And the privilege was one held dear.

She coveted a dearer. And her eyes roved to the larger of her two
tables, where stood the tall lamp. There she ate all her meals, in the
condescending company of Miss Royle. What if the telephone message meant
that henceforth she was to eat _downstairs?_

Standing on one foot she waited developments, and concealed her
eagerness by snapping her underlip against her teeth with one busy
forefinger.

Her spirits fell when Thomas appeared with the supper-tray. And she ate
with no appetite--for all that she was eating alone--alone, that is,
except for Thomas, who preserved a complete and stony silence. Miss
Royle had not returned. Jane had disappeared toward her room, grumbling
about never having a single evening to call her own.

But at seven cheer returned with the realization that Jane was not
getting ready the white-and-gold bed. Still in a very bad humor, and
touched up smartly by a fresh cap and a dainty apron, the nurse put
Gwendolyn into a rosebud-bordered mull frock and tied a white-satin bow
atop her yellow hair.

"Where am I going, Jane?" asked Gwendolyn. (She felt certain that this
was one of the nights when she was invited downstairs: She hoped--with a
throb in her throat that was like the beat of a heart--that the supper
just past was only afternoon tea, and that there was waiting for her at
the grown-up table--in view of her newly acquired year and dignity--_an
empty chair_.)

"You'll see soon enough," answered Jane, shortly.

Next, a new thought! Her father and mother had not seen her for two
whole days--not since she was six. "Wonder if I show I'm not taller,"
she mused under her breath.

At precisely fifteen minutes to eight Jane took her by the hand. And she
went down and down in the bronze cage, past the floor where were the
guest chambers, past the library floor, which was where her mother and
father lived, to the second floor of the great house. Here was the
music-room, spacious and splendid, and the dining-room. The doors of
this latter room were double. Before them the two halted.

Not only the pause at this entrance betrayed whereto they were bound,
but also Jane's manner. For the nurse was holding herself erect and
proper--shoulders back, chin in, heels together. Gwendolyn had often
noted that upon both Jane and Thomas her parents had a curious
stiffening effect.

The thought of that empty chair now forced itself uppermost. The gray
eyes darkened with sudden anxiety.

"Now, Gwendolyn" whispered Jane, leaning down, "put your best foot
forward." Her face had lost some of its accustomed color.

"But, Jane," whispered Gwendolyn back, "which _is_ my best foot?"

Jane gave the small hand she was holding an impatient shake. "Hush your
rubbishy questions," she commanded "We're goin' in!" She tapped one of
the doors gently.

Gwendolyn glanced down at her daintily slippered feet. With so little
time for reflecting, she could not decide which one she should put
forward. Both looked equally well.

The next moment the doors swung open, and Potter, white-haired, grave
and bent, stepped aside for them to pass. They crossed the threshold.

The dining-room was wide and long and lofty. Its wainscot was somberly
stained. Above the wainscot, the dull tapestried walls reached to a
ceiling richly panelled. The center of this dark setting was a long
table, glittering with china and crystal, bright with silver and roses,
and lighted by clusters of silk-shaded candles that reflected
themselves upon circular table mirrors. At the far end of the table sat
Gwendolyn's father, pale in his black dress-clothes, and haggard-eyed;
at the near end sat her mother, pink-cheeked and pretty, with jewels
about her bare throat and in her fair hair. And between the two, filling
the high-backed chairs on either side of the table, were strange men and
women.

Gwendolyn let go of Jane's hand and went toward her mother. Thither had
gone her first glance; her second had swept the whole length of the
board to her father's face. And now, without heeding any of the others,
her look circled swiftly from chair to chair--searching.

Not one was empty!

The gray eyes blurred. Yet she tried to smile. Close to that dear
presence, so delicately perfumed (with a haunting perfume that was a
very part of her mother's charm and beauty) she halted; and
curtsied--precisely as Monsieur Tellegen had taught her. And when the
white-satin bow bobbed above the level of the table once more, she
raised her face for a kiss.

A murmur went up and down the double row of chairs.

Gwendolyn's mother smiled radiantly. Her glance over the table was
proud. "This is my little daughter's seventh birthday anniversary," she
proclaimed.

To Gwendolyn the announcement was unexpected. But she was quick. Very
cautiously she lifted herself on her toes--just a little.

Another buzz of comment circled the board. "_Too_ sweet!" said one; and,
"_Cunning!_" and "Fine child, that!"

"Now, dear," encouraged her mother.

Gwendolyn would have liked to stand still and listen to the chorus of
praise. But there was something else to do.

She turned a corner of the table and started slowly along it, curtseying
at each chair. As she curtsied she said nothing, only bobbed the satin
bow and put out a small hand. And, "How do you do, darling!" said the
ladies, and "Ah, little Miss Gwendolyn!" said the men.

The last man on that side, however, said something different. (He, she
had seen at the dinner-table often.) He slipped a hand into a pocket.
When it came forth, it held an oblong box. "I didn't forget that this
was your birthday," he half-whispered. "Here!"--as he laid the box upon
Gwendolyn's pink palm--"that's for your sweet tooth!"

Everyone was watching, the ladies beaming, the men intent and amused.
But Gwendolyn was unaware both of the silence and the scrutiny. She
glanced at the box. Then she looked up into the friendly eyes of the
donor.

"But," she began; "--but which _is_ my sweet tooth?"

There was a burst of laughter, Gwendolyn's father and mother joining in.
The man who had presented the box laughed heartiest of all; then rose.

First he bowed to her mother, who acknowledged his salute graciously;
next he turned to her father, whose pale face softened; last of all, he
addressed her:

"Miss Gwendolyn," said he, "a toast!"

Gwendolyn looked at those bread-plates which were nearest her. There was
no toast in sight, only some very nice dinner-rolls. Moreover, Potter
and Thomas were not starting for the pantry, but were standing, the one
behind her mother, the other behind her father, quietly listening. And
what this friend of her father's had in his right hand was not anything
to eat, but a delicate-stemmed glass wherein some champagne was
bubbling--like amber soda-water. She was forced to conclude that he was
unaccountably stupid--or only queer--or else indulging in another of
those incomprehensible grown-up jokes.

He made a little speech--which she could not understand, but which
elicited much laughter and polite applause; though to her it did not
seem brilliant, or even interesting. Reseating himself, he patted her
head.

She put the candy under her left arm, said a hasty, half-whispered
Thank-you to him, went to the next high-backed chair, curtsied, bobbed
the ribbon-bow and put out a hand. A pat on the head was dismissal:
There was no need to wait for an answer to her question concerning her
sweet tooth. Experience had taught her that whenever mirth greeted an
inquiry, that inquiry was ignored.

When one whole side of the table was finished, and she turned a second
corner, her father brushed her soft cheek with his lips.

"Did your dolls like the merry-go-round?" he asked kindly.

"Yes, fath--er."

"Was there something else my little girl wanted?"

Now she raised herself so far on her toes that her lips were close to
his ear. For there was a lady on either side of him. And both were
plainly listening.

"If--if you'd come up and make it go," she said, almost whispering.

He nodded energetically.

She went behind his chair. Thomas was in wait there still. Down here he
seemed to raise a wall of aloofness between himself and her, to wear a
magnificent air, all cold and haughty, that was quite foreign to the
nursery. As she passed him, she dimpled up at him saucily. But it failed
to slack the starchy tenseness of his visage.

She turned another corner and curtsied her way along the opposite side
of the table. On this side were precisely as many high-backed chairs as
on the other. And now, "You _adorable_ child!" cried the ladies, and
"Haw! Haw! Don't the rest of us get a smile?" said the men.

When all the curtseying was over, and the last corner was turned, she
paused. "And what is my daughter going to say about the rabbit in the
cabbage?" asked her mother.

There was a man seated on either hand. Gwendolyn gave each a quick
glance. At Johnnie Blake's she had been often alone with her father and
mother during that one glorious week. But in town her little
confidences, for the most part, had to be made in just this way--under
the eye of listening guests and servants, in a low voice.

"I like the rabbit," she answered, "but my Puffy Bear was nicer, only he
got old and shabby, and so--"

At this point Jane took one quick step forward.

"But if you'd come up to the nursery soon," Gwendolyn hastened to add.
"_Would_ you, moth--er?"

"Yes, indeed, dear."

Gwendolyn went up to Jane, who was waiting, rooted and rigid, close by.
The reddish eyes of the nurse-maid fairly bulged with importance. Her
lips were sealed primly. Her face was so pale that every freckle she
had stood forth clearly. How strangely--even direly--the great
dining-room affected _her_--who was so at ease in the nursery! No smile,
no wink, no remark, either lively or sensible, ever melted the ice of
_her_ countenance. And it was with a look almost akin to pity that
Gwendolyn held out a hand.

Jane took it with a great show of affection. Then once more Potter swung
wide the double doors.

Gwendolyn turned her head for a last glimpse of her father, sitting,
grave and haggard, at the far end of the table; at her beautiful,
jeweled mother; at the double line of high-backed chairs that showed,
now a man's stern black-and-white, next the gayer colors of a woman's
dress; at the clustered lights; the glitter; the roses--

Then the doors closed, making faint the din of chatter and laughter.
And the bronze cage carried Gwendolyn up and up.




CHAPTER III


There was a high wind blowing, and the newly washed garments hanging on
the roofs of nearby buildings were writhing and twisting violently, and
tugging at the long swagging clothes-lines. Gwendolyn, watching from the
side window of the nursery, pretended that the garments were so many
tortured creatures, vainly struggling to be free. And she wished that
two or three of the whitest and prettiest might loose their hold and go
flying away--across the crescent of the Drive and the wide river--to
liberty and happiness in the forest beyond.

Among the flapping lines walked maids--fully a score of them. Some were
taking down wash that was dry and stuffing it into baskets. Others were
busy hanging up limp pieces, first giving them a vigorous shake; then
putting a small portion of each over the line and pinching all securely
into place with huge wooden pins.

It seemed cruel.

Yet the faces of the maids were kind--kinder than the faces of Miss
Royle and Jane and Thomas. Behind Gwendolyn the heavy brocade curtains
hung touching. She parted them to make sure that she was alone in the
nursery. After which she raised the window--just a trifle. The roofs
that were white with laundry were not those directly across from the
nursery, but over-looked the next street. Nevertheless, with the window
up, Gwendolyn could hear the crack and snap of the whipping garments,
and an indistinct chorus of cheery voices. One maid was singing a
lilting tune. The rest were chattering back and forth. With all her
heart Gwendolyn envied them--envied their freedom, and the fact that
they were indisputably grown-up. And she decided that, later on, when
she was as big and strong, she would be a laundry-maid and run about on
just such level roofs, joyously hanging up wash.

Presently she raised the window a trifle more, so that the lower sill
was above her head. Then, "_Hoo_-hoo-oo-oo!" she piped in her clear
voice.

A maid heard her, and pointed her out to another. Soon a number were
looking her way. They smiled at her, too, Gwendolyn smiled in return,
and nodded. At that, one of a group snatched up a square of white cloth
and waved it. Instantly Gwendolyn waved back.

One by one the maids went. Then Gwendolyn suddenly recalled why she was
waiting alone--while Miss Royle and Jane made themselves extra neat in
their respective rooms; why she herself was dressed with such unusual
care--in a pink muslin, white silk stockings, and black patent-leather
pumps, the whole crowned by a pink-satin hair-bow. With the remembrance,
the pretend-game was forgotten utterly: The lines of limp, white
creatures on the roofs flung their tortured shapes about unheeded.

At bed-time the previous evening Potter had telephoned that Madam would
pay a morning visit to the nursery. The thought had kept Gwendolyn awake
for a while, smiling into the dark, kissing her own hands for very
happiness; it had made her heart beat wildly, too. For she reviewed all
the things she intended broaching to her mother--about eating at the
grown-up table, and not having a nurse any more, and going to
day-school.

Contrary to a secret plan of action, she slept late. At breakfast,
excitement took away her appetite. And throughout the study-hour that
followed, her eyes read, and her lips repeated aloud, several pages of
standard literature for juveniles that her busy brain did not
comprehend. Yet now as she waited behind the rose hangings for the
supreme moment, she felt, strangely enough, no impatience. With three to
attend her, privacy was not a common privilege, and, therefore, prized.
She fell to inspecting the row of houses across the way--in search for
other strange but friendly faces.

There were exactly twelve houses opposite. The corner one farthest from
the river she called the gray-haired house. An old lady lived there who
knitted bright worsted; also a fat old gentleman in a gay skull-cap who
showed much attention to a long-leaved rubber-plant that flourished
behind the glass of the street door. Gwendolyn leaned out, chin on palm,
to canvass the quaintly curtained windows--none of which at the moment
framed a venerable head. Next the gray-haired house there had been--up
to a recent date--a vacant lot walled off from the sidewalk by a high,
broad bill-board. Now a pit yawned where formerly was the vacant space.
And instead of the fascinating pictures that decorated the bill-board
(one week a baby, rosy, dimpled and laughing; the next some huge
lettering elaborately combined with a floral design; the next a mammoth
bottle, red and beautiful, and flanked by a single gleaming word:
"Catsup") there towered--above street and pit, and even above the
chimneys of the gray-haired house--the naked girders of a new steel
structure.

The girders were black, but rusted to a brick-color in patches and
streaks. They were so riveted together that through them could be seen
small, regular spots of light. Later on, as Gwendolyn knew, floors and
windowed walls and a tin top would be fitted to the framework. And what
was now a skeleton would be another house!

Directly opposite the nursery, on that part of the side street which
sloped, were ten narrow houses, each four stories high, each with
brown-stone fronts and brown-stone steps, each topped by a large chimney
and a small chimney. In every detail these ten houses were precisely
alike. Jane, for some unaccountable reason, referred to them as private
dwellings. But since the roof of the second brown-stone house was just a
foot lower than the roof of the first, the third roof just a foot lower
than the roof of the second, and so on to the very tenth and last,
Gwendolyn called these ten the step-houses.

The step-houses were seldom interesting. As Gwendolyn's glances traveled
now from brown-stone front to brown-stone front, not one presented even
the relief of a visiting post-man.

Her progress down the line of step-houses brought her by degrees to the
brick house on the Drive--a large vine-covered house, the wide entrance
of which was toward the river. And no sooner had she given it one quick
glance than she uttered a little shout of pleased surprise. The
brick-house people were back!

All the shades were up. There was smoke rising from one of the four tall
chimneys. And even as Gwendolyn gazed, all absorbed interest, the net
curtains at an upper window were suddenly drawn aside and a face looked
out.

It was a face that Gwendolyn had never seen before in the brick house.
But though it was strange, it was entirely friendly. For as Gwendolyn
smiled it a greeting, it smiled her a greeting back!

She was a nurse-maid--so much was evident from the fact that she wore a
cap. But it was also plain that her duties differed in some way from
Jane's. For her cap was different--shaped like a sugar-bowl turned
upside-down; hollow, and white, and marred by no flying strings.

And she was not a red-haired nurse-maid. Her hair was almost as fair as
Gwendolyn's own, and it framed her face in a score of saucy wisps and
curls. Her face was pretty--full and rosy, like the face of Gwendolyn's
French doll. Also it seemed certain--even at such a distance--that she
had no freckles. Gwendolyn waved both hands at her. She threw a kiss
back.

"Oh, thank you!" cried Gwendolyn, out loud. She threw kisses with
alternating finger-tips.

The nurse-maid shook the curtains at her. Then--they fell into place.
She was gone.

Gwendolyn sighed.

The next moment she heard voices in the direction of the hall--first,
Thomas's; next, a woman's--a strange one this. Disappointed, she turned
to face the screening curtains. But she was in no mood to make herself
agreeable to visiting friends of Miss Royle's--and who else could this
be?

She decided to remain quietly in seclusion; to emerge for no one except
her mother.

A door opened. A heavy step advanced, followed by the murmur of trailing
skirts upon carpet. Then Thomas spoke--his tone that full and measured
one employed, not to the governess, to Jane, to herself, or to any other
common mortal, but to Potter, to her father and mother, and to guests.
"This is Miss Gwendolyn's nursery," he announced.

Beyond the curtains were persons of importance!

She shrank against the window, taking care not to stir the brocade.

"We will wait here,"--the voice was clear, musical.

"Thank you." Thomas's heavy step retreated. A door closed.

There was a moment of perfect stillness. Then that musical voice began
again:

"Where do you suppose that young one is?"

A second voice rippled out a low laugh.

Gwendolyn laughed too,--silently, her face against the glass. The fat
old gentleman in the gray-haired house chanced to be looking in her
direction. He caught the broad smile and joined in.

"In the school-room likely,"--it was the first speaker, answering her
own inquiry--"getting stuffed."

Stuffed! Gwendolyn could appreciate _that_. She choked back a giggle
with one small hand.

Someone else thought the declaration amusing, for there was another
well-bred ripple; then once more that murmur of trailing skirts, going
toward the window-seat; going the opposite way also, as if one of the
two was making a circuit of the room.

Presently, "Just look at this dressing-table, Louise! Fancy such a piece
of furniture for a _child!_ Ridiculous!"

Gwendolyn cocked her yellow head to one side--after the manner of her
canary.

"Bad taste." Louise joined her companion. "_Crystal_, if you please!
Must've cost a fabulous sum."

One or two articles were moved on the dresser. Then, "Poor little girl!"
observed the other woman. "Rich, but--"

Gwendolyn puckered her brows gravely. Was the speaker referring to
_her?_ Clasping her hands tight, she leaned forward a little, straining
to catch every syllable. As a rule when gossip or criticism was talked
in her hearing, it was insured against being understood by the use of
strange terms, spellings, winks, nods, shrugs, or sudden stops at the
most important point. But now, with herself hidden, was there not a
likelihood of plain speech?

It came.

The voice went on: "This is the first time you've met the mother, isn't
it?"

"I think so,"--indifferently. "Who is she, anyhow?"

"_No_body."

Gwendolyn stared.

"Nobody at all--_absolutely_. You know, they say--" She paused for
emphasis.

Now, Gwendolyn's eyes grew suddenly round; her lips parted in surprise.
_They_ again!

"Yes?" encouraged Louise.

Lower--"They say she was just an ordinary country girl, pretty, and
horribly poor, with a fair education, but no culture to speak of. She
met him; he had money and fell in love with her; she married him. And,
oh, _then!_" She chuckled.

"Made the money fly?"

The two were coming to settle themselves in chairs close to the side
window.

"Not exactly. Haven't you heard what's the matter with her?"

Gwendolyn's face paled a little. There was something the matter with her
mother?--her dear, beautiful, young mother! The clasped hands were
pressed to her breast.

"Ambitious?" hazarded Louise, confidently.

"It's no secret. Everybody's laughing at her,--at the rebuffs she takes;
the money she gives to charity (wedges, you understand); the quantities
of dresses she buys; the way she slaps on the jewels. She's got the
society bee in her bonnet!"

Gwendolyn caught her breath. _The society bee in her bonnet?_

"Ah!" breathed Louise, as if comprehending. Then, "Dear! dear!"

"She _talks_ nothing else. She _hears_ nothing else. She _sees_ nothing
else."

"Bad as that?"

"Goes wherever she can shove in--subscription lectures and musicales,
hospital teas, Christmas bazars. And she benches her Poms; has boxes at
the Horse Show and the Opera; gives gold-plate dinners, and Heaven knows
what!"

"Ha! ha! _You_ haven't boosted her, dear?"

"Not a bit of it! Make a point of never being seen _any_where with
her."

"And he?"

Gwendolyn swallowed. _He_ was her father.

"Well, it has kept the poor fellow in harness all the time, of course.
You should have seen him when he _first_ came to town--straight and
boyish, and _very_ handsome. (You know the type.) He's changed! Burns
his candles at both ends."

"Hm!"

Gwendolyn blinked with the effort of making mental notes.

"You haven't heard the latest about him?"

"Trying to make some Club?"

Whispering--"On the edge of a _crash_."

"Who told you?"

"Oh, a little bird."

Up came both palms to cover Gwendolyn's mouth. But not to smother
mirth. A startled cry had all but escaped her. A little bird! She knew
of that bird! He had told things against _her_--true things more often
than not--to Jane and Miss Royle. And now here he was chattering about
her father!

"It's the usual story," commented Louise calmly, "with these _nouveaux
riches_."

"Sh!" A moment of stillness, as if both were listening. Then, "_Sprechen
Sie Deutsch?_"

"I--er--read it fairly well."

"_Parlez-vous Francais?_"

"_Oh, oui! Oui!_"

"_Allors._" And there followed, in undertones, a short, spirited
conversation in the Gallic.

Gwendolyn made a silent resolution to devote more time and thought to
the peevish and staccato instruction of Miss Du Bois.

The two were interrupted by a light, quick step outside. Again the hall
door opened.

"Oh, you'll pardon my having to desert you, _won't_ you?" It was
Gwendolyn's mother. "I didn't intend being so long."

Gwendolyn half-started forward, then stopped.

"Why, of course!"--with sounds of rising.

"_Cer_tainly!"

"Differences below stairs, I find, require prompt action."

"I fancy you have oceans of executive ability," declared Louise, warmly.
"That Orphans' Home affair--I hear you managed it tre_men_dously!"

"No! No!"

"Really, my dear,"--it was the other woman--"to be _quite_ frank, we
must confess that we haven't missed you! We've been enjoying our glimpse
of the nursery."

"It's simply _lovely!_" cried Louise.

"And what a perfectly sweet dressing-table!"

"Have you seen my little daughter?--Thomas!"

"Yes, Madam."

"There's a draught coming from somewhere--"

"It's the side window, Madam."

Instinctively Gwendolyn flattened herself against the wood-work at her
back.

Three or four steps brought Thomas across the floor. Then his two big
hands appeared high up on the hangings. The next moment, the hands
parted, sweeping the curtains with them.

To escape detection was impossible. A quick thought made Gwendolyn
raise a face upon which was a forced expression that bore only a faint
resemblance to a smile.

"Boo!" she said, jumping out at him.

Startled, he fell back. "Why, Miss Gwendolyn!"

"Gwendolyn?" repeated her mother, surprised. "Why, what were you doing
there, darling?"

"_Gwendolyn!_"--this in a faint gasp from both visitors.

Gwendolyn came slowly forward. She did not raise her eyes; only
curtsied.

"So _this_ is your little daughter!" A gloved hand was reached out, and
Gwendolyn was drawn forward. "How _cunning!_"

Gwendolyn recognized the voice of Louise. Now, she looked up. And saw a
pleasant face, young, but not so pretty as her mother's. She shook
hands bashfully. Then shook again with an older woman, whose plain
countenance was dimly familiar. After which, giving a sudden little
bound, and putting up eager arms, she was caught to her mother.

"My baby!"

"_Moth-er!_"

Cheek caressed cheek.

"She's six, isn't she, my dear?" asked the plain, elderly one.

"Oh, she's seven." A soft hand stroked the yellow hair.

"As much as that? Really?"

The inference was not lost upon Gwendolyn. She tightened her embrace.
And turning her head on her mother's breast, looked frank resentment.

The visitors were not watching her. They were exchanging glances--and
smiles, faint and uneasy. Slowly now they began to move toward the hall
door, which stood open. Beside it, waiting with an impressive air, was
Miss Royle.

"I think we must go, Louise."

"Oh, we must,"--quickly. "Dear me! I'd almost forgot! We've promised to
lunch with one or two people down-town."

"I wish you were lunching here," said Gwendolyn's mother. She freed
herself gently from the clinging arms and followed the two. "Miss Royle,
will you take Gwendolyn?"

As the governess promptly advanced, with a half-bow, and a set smile
that was like a grimace, Gwendolyn raised a face tense with earnestness.
Until half an hour before, her whole concern had been for herself. But
now! To fail to grow up, to have her long-cherished hopes come short of
fulfillment--that was _one_ thing. To know that her mother and father
had real and serious troubles of their own, that was another!

"Oh, moth-er! Don't _you_ go!"

"Mother must tell the ladies good-by."

"What touching affection!" It was the elder of the visiting pair.

Miss Royle assented with a simper.

"Will you come back?" urged Gwendolyn, dropping her voice. "Oh, I want
to see you"--darting a look sidewise--"all by myself."

There was a wheel and a flutter at the door--another silent exchange of
comment, question and exclamation, all mingled eloquently. Then Louise
swept back.

"What a bright child!" she enthused. "Does she speak French?"

"She is acquiring two tongues at present," answered Gwendolyn's mother
proudly, "--French and German."

"_Splendid!_" It was the elder woman. "I think every little girl should
have those. And later on, I suppose, Greek and Latin?"

"I've thought of Spanish and Italian."

"_Eventually_," informed Miss Royle, with a conscious, sinuous shift
from foot to foot, "Gwendolyn will have _seven_ tongues at her command."

"How _chic!_" Once more the gloved hand was extended--to pat the
pink-satin hair-bow.

Gwendolyn accepted the pat stolidly. Her eyes were fixed on her mother's
face.

Now, the elder of the strangers drew closer. "I wonder," she began,
addressing her hostess with almost a coy air, "if we could induce _you_
to take lunch with us down-town. Wouldn't that be jolly,
Louise?"--turning.

"_Awfully_ jolly!"

"_Do_ come!"

"Oh, _do_!"

"Moth-er!"

Gwendolyn's mother looked down. A sudden color was mounting to her
cheeks. Her eyes shone.

"We-e-ell," she said, with rising inflection.

It was acceptance.

Gwendolyn stepped back the pink muslin in a nervous grasp at either
side. "Oh, _won't_ you stay?" she half-whispered.

"Mother'll see you at dinnertime, darling. Tell Jane, Miss Royle."

A bow.

Louise led the way quickly, followed by the elderly lady. Gwendolyn's
mother came last. A bronze gate slid between the three and Gwendolyn,
watching them go. The cage lowered noiselessly, with a last glimpse of
upturned faces and waving hands.

Gwendolyn, lips pouting, crossed toward the school-room door. The door
was slightly ajar. She gave it a smart pull.

A kneeling figure rose from behind it. It was Jane, who greeted her with
a nervous, and somewhat apprehensive grin.

"I was waitin' to jump out at Miss Royle and give her a scare when she'd
come through," she explained.

Gwendolyn said nothing.




CHAPTER IV


It was a morning abounding in unexpected good fortune. For one thing,
Miss Royle was indisposed--to an extent that was fully convincing--and
was lying down, brows swathed by a towel, in her own room; for another,
the bursting of a hot-water pipe on the same floor as the nursery
required the prompt attention of a man in a greasy cap and Johnnie Blake
overalls, who, as he hammered and soldered and coupled lengths of piping
with his wrench, discussed various grown-up topics in a loud voice with
Jane, thus levying on _her_ attention. Miss Royle's temporary incapacity
set aside the program of study usual to each forenoon; and Jane's
suddenly aroused interest in plumbing made the canceling of that day's
riding-lesson seem advisable. It was Thomas who telephoned the
postponement. And Gwendolyn found herself granted some little time to
herself.

But she was not playing any of the games she loved--the absorbing
pretend-games with which she occupied herself on just such rare
occasions. Her own pleasure, her own disappointment, too,--these were
entirely put aside in a concern touching weightier matters. Slippers
upheld by a hassock, and slender pink-frocked figure bent across the
edge of the school-room table, she had each elbow firmly planted on a
page of the wide-open, dictionary.

At all times the volume was beguiling--this in spite of the fact that
the square of black-board always carried along its top, in glaring
chalk, the irritating reminder: _Use Your Dictionary!_ There was
diversion in turning the leaves at random (blissfully ignoring the while
any white list that might be inscribed down the whole of the board) to
chance upon big, strange words.

But the word she was now poring over was a small one. "B-double-e," she
spelled; "Bee: a so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect."

She pondered the definition with wrinkled forehead and worried eye.
"Social"--the word seemed vaguely linked with that other word,
"Society", which she had so fortunately overheard. But what of the
remainder of that visitor's never-to-be-forgotten declaration of scorn?
For the definition had absolutely nothing to say about any _bonnet_.

She was shoving the pages forward with an impatient damp thumb in her
search for Bonnet, when Thomas entered, slipping in around the edge of
the hall door on soft foot--with a covert peek nursery-ward that was
designed to lend significance to his coming. His countenance, which on
occasion could be so rigorously sober, was fairly askew with a smile.

Gwendolyn stood up straight on the hassock to look at him. And at first
glance divined that something--probably in the nature of an
edible--might be expected. For the breast-pocket of his liveried coat
bulged promisingly.

"Hello!" he saluted, tiptoeing genially across the room.

"Hello!" she returned noncommittally.

Near the table, he reached into the bulging pocket and drew out a small
Manila bag. The bag was partly open at the top. He tipped his head to
direct one black eye upon its contents.

"Say, Miss Gwendolyn," he began, "_you_ like old Thomas, don't you?"

Gwendolyn's nostrils widened and quivered, receiving the tempting
fragrance of fresh-roasted peanuts. At the same time, her eyes lit with
glad surprise. Since her seventh anniversary, she had noted a vast
change for the better in the attitude of Miss Royle, Thomas and Jane;
where, previous to the birthday, it had seemed the main purpose of the
trio (if not the duty) to circumvent her at every turn--to which end,
each had a method that was unique: the first commanded; the second
threatened; Thomas employed sarcasm or bribery. But now this wave of
thoughtfulness, generosity and smooth speech!--marking a very era in the
history of the nursery. Here was fresh evidence that it was
_continuing_.

Yet--was it not too good to last?

"Why, ye-e-es," she answered, more than half guessing that this time
bribery was in the air.

But the fragrant bag resolved itself into a friendly offering. Thomas
let it drop to the table.

Casting her last doubt aside, Gwendolyn caught it up eagerly. Miss Royle
never permitted her to eat peanuts, which lent to them all the charm of
the forbidden. She cracked a pod; and fell to crunching merrily.

"And you wouldn't like to see me go away, _would_ you now," went on
Thomas.

Her mouth being crammed, she shook her head cordially.

"Ah! I thought so!" He tore the bag down the side so that she could more
easily get at its store. Then, leaning down confidentially, and
pointing a teasing finger at her, "Ha! Ha! Who was it got caught spyin'
yesterday?"

The small jaws ceased grinding. She lifted her eyes. Their gray was
suddenly clouded--remembering what, for a moment, her joy in the peanuts
had blotted out. "But I _wasn't_ spying," she denied earnestly.

"Then what _was_ you doin'?--still as mice behind them curtains."

The mist cleared. Her face sunned over once more. "I was waving at the
nurse in the brick house," she explained.

At that, up went Thomas's head. His mouth opened. His ears grew red.
"The nurse in the brick house!" he repeated softly.

"The one with the curly hair," went on Gwendolyn, cracking more pods.

Thomas turned his face toward the side window of the school-room.
Through it could be seen the chimneys of the brick house. He smacked his
lips.

"You like peanuts, too," said Gwendolyn. She proffered the bag.

He ignored it. His look was dreamy. "There's a fine Pomeranian at the
brick house," he remarked.

"It was the first time I'd ever seen her," said Gwendolyn, with the
nurse still in mind. "Doesn't she smile nice!"

Now, Thomas waxed enthusiastic. "And she's a lot prettier close to," he
declared, "than she is with a street between. Ah, you ought--"

That moment, Jane entered, fairly darting in.

"Here!" she called sharply to Gwendolyn. "What're you eatin'?"

"Peanuts, Jane,"--perfect frankness being the rule when concealment was
not possible.

Jane came over. "And where'd you git 'em?" she demanded, promptly
seizing the bag as contraband.

"Thomas."

Sudden suspicion flamed in Jane's red glance. "Oh, you must've did
Thomas a _grand_ turn," she observed.

Thomas shifted from foot to foot. "I was--er--um--just tellin' Miss
Gwendolyn"--he winked significantly--"that she wouldn't like to lose
us."

"So?" said Jane, still sceptical. Then to Gwendolyn, after a moment's
reflection. "Let me close up your dictionary for you, pettie. Jane never
likes to see one of your fine books lyin' open that way. It might put a
strain on the back."

Emboldened by that cooing tone, Gwendolyn eyed the Manila bag
covetously. "I didn't eat many," she asserted, gently argumentative.

"Oh, a peanut or two won't hurt you, lovie," answered Jane, kneeling to
present the bag. Then drawing the pink-frocked figure close, "And you
_didn't_ tell him what them two ladies had to say?"

"No." It was decisive, "I told him about--"

"I didn't ask her," interrupted Thomas. "No; I talked about how she
loves us. And a-course, she does.... Jane, ain't it near twelve?"

But Gwendolyn had no mind to be held as a tattler. "I told him," she
continued, husking peanuts busily, "about the nurse-maid at the brick
house."

Jane sat back.

"Ah?" She flashed a glance at Thomas, still shifting about uneasily
mid-way between table and door. Then, "What _about_ the nurse-maid,
dearie?"

It was Gwendolyn's turn to wax enthusiastic. "Oh, she has _such_ sweet
hair!" she exclaimed. "And she smiles nice!"

Jealousy hardened the freckled visage of the kneeling Jane. "And she's
taken with you, I suppose," said she.

"She threw me kisses," recounted Gwendolyn, crunching happily the while.
"And, oh, Jane, some day may I go over to the brick house?"

"Some day you may--_not_."

Gwendolyn recognized the sudden change to belligerence; and foreseeing a
possible loss of the peanuts, commenced to eat more rapidly. "Well,
then," she persisted, "she could come over here."

Jane stared. "What do you mean?" she demanded crossly. "And don't you go
botherin' your poor father and mother about this strange woman. Do you
_hear?_"

"But she takes care of a rich little girl. I _know_--'cause there are
bars on the basement windows. And Thomas says--"

"Oh, _come_" broke in Thomas, urging Jane hallward with a nervous jerk
of the head.

"Ah!" Now complete understanding brought Jane to her feet. She fixed
Thomas with blazing eyes. "And _what_ does Thomas say, darlin'?"

Thomas waited. His ears were a dead white.

"There's a Pomeranian at the brick house," went on Gwendolyn, "and the
pretty nurse takes it out to walk. And--"

"And Thomas is a-walkin' our Poms at the same time." Jane was breathing
hard.

"And he says she's lots prettier close to--"

A bell rang sharply. Thomas sprang away. With a gurgle, Jane flounced
after.

The next moment Gwendolyn, from the hassock--upon which she had settled
in comfort--heard a wrangle of voices: First, Jane's shrill accusing,
"It was _you_ put it into her head!--to come--and take my place from
under me--and the food out of my very mouth--and break my hear-r-r-rt!"
Next, Thomas's sonorous, "Stuff and fiddle-sticks!" then sounds of
lamentation, and the slamming of a door.

The last peanut was eaten. As Gwendolyn searched out some few remaining
bits from the crevices of the bag, she shook her yellow hair hopelessly.
Truly there was no fathoming grown-ups!

The morning which had begun so propitiously ended in gloom. At the noon
dinner, Thomas looked harassed. He had set the table for one. That
single plate, as well as the empty arm-chair so popular with Jane,
emphasized the infestivity. As for the heavy curtains at the side
window, which--as near as Gwendolyn could puzzle it out--were the cause
of the late unpleasantness, these were closely drawn.

Having already eaten heartily, Gwendolyn had little appetite.
Furthermore, again she was turning over and over the direful statements
made concerning her parents. She employed the dinner-hour in formulating
a plan that was simple but daring--one that would bring quick
enlightenment concerning the things that worried. Miss Royle was still
indisposed. Jane was locked in her own room, from which issued an
occasional low bellow. When Thomas, too, was out of the way--gone
pantry-ward with tray held aloft--she would carry it out. It called for
no great amount of time: no searching of the dictionary. She would close
all doors softly; then fly to the telephone--_and call up her father_.

There were times when Thomas--as well as the two others--seemed to
possess the power of divination. And during the whole of the dinner his
manner showed distinct apprehension. The meal concluded, even to the use
of the finger-bowl, and all dishes disposed upon the tray, he hung
about, puttering with the table, picking up crumbs and pins, dusting
this article and that with a napkin,--all the while working his lips
with silent speech, and drawing down and lifting his black eye-brows
menacingly.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn fretted. But found some small diversion in
standing before the pier glass, at which, between the shining rows of
her teeth, she thrust out a tip of scarlet. She was thinking about the
discussion anent tongues held by her mother and the two visitors.

"Seven," she murmured, and viewed the greater part of her own tongue
thoughtfully; "_seven_."

The afternoon was a French-and-music afternoon. Directly after dinner
might be expected the Gallic teacher--undesired at any hour. Thomas
puttered and frowned until a light tap announced her arrival. Then
quickly handed Gwendolyn over to her company.

Mademoiselle Du Bois was short and spare. And these defects she
emphasized by means of a wide hat and a long feather boa. She led
Gwendolyn to the school-room. There she settled down in a low chair,
opened a black reticule, took out a thick, closely written letter, and
fell to reading.

Gwendolyn amused herself by experimenting with the boa, which she
festooned, now over one shoulder, now over the other. "Mademoiselle,"
she began, "what kind of a bird owned these feathers?"

"Dear me, Mees Gwendolyn," chided Mademoiselle, irritably (she spoke
with much precision and only a slight accent), "how you talk!"

_Talk_--the word was a cue! Why not make certain inquiries of
Mademoiselle?

"But do little _birds_ ever talk?" returned Gwendolyn, undaunted. The
boa was thin at one point. She tied a knot in it. "And which little bird
is it that tells things to--to people?" Then, more to herself than to
Mademoiselle, who was still deep in her letter, "I shouldn't wonder if
it wasn't the little bird that's in the cuckoo clock, though--"

"_Ma foil!_" exclaimed Mademoiselle. She seized an end of the boa and
drew Gwendolyn to her knee. "You make ze head buzz. Come!" She reached
for a book on the school-room table. "_Attendez!_"

"Mademoiselle," persisted Gwendolyn, twining and untwining, "if I do my
French fast will you tell me something? What does _nouveaux riches_
mean?"

"_Nouveaux riches_," said Mademoiselle, "is not on ziss page.
_Attendez-vous!_"

Miss Brown followed Mademoiselle Du Bois, the one coming upon the heels
of the other; so that a loud _crescendo_ from the nursery, announcing
the arrival of the music-teacher, drowned the last paragraph of French.

To Gwendolyn an interruption at any time was welcome. This day it was
doubly so. She had learned nothing from Mademoiselle. But Miss
Brown--She made toward the nursery, doing her newest dance step.

Miss Brown was stocky, with a firm tread and an eye of decision. As
Gwendolyn appeared, she was seated at the piano, her face raised (as if
she were seeking out some spot on the ceiling), and her solid frame
swaying from side to side in the ecstasy of performance. Up and down the
key-board of the instrument her plump hands galloped.

Gwendolyn paused beside the piano-seat. The air was vibrant with melody.
The lifted face, the rocking, the ardent touch--all these inspired hope.
The gray eyes were wide with eagerness. Each corner of the rosy mouth
was upturned.

The resounding notes of a march ended with a bang. Miss Brown
straightened--got to her feet--smiled down.

That smile gave Gwendolyn renewed encouragement. They were alone. She
stood on tiptoe. "Miss Brown," she began, "did you ever hear of a--a bee
that some ladies carry in a--"

Miss Brown's smile of greeting went. "Now, Gwendolyn," she interrupted
severely, "are you going to begin your usual silly, silly questions?"

Gwendolyn fell back a step. "But I didn't ask you a silly question day
before yesterday," she plead. "I just wanted to know how _any_body could
call my German teacher Miss _French_."

"Take your place, if you please," bade Miss Brown curtly, "and don't
waste my time." She pointed a stubby finger at the piano-seat.

Gwendolyn climbed up, her cheeks scarlet with wounded dignity, her
breast heaving with a rancor she dared not express. "Do I have to play
that old piece?" she asked.

"You must,"--with rising inflection.

"Up at Johnnie Blake's it sounded nice. 'Cause my moth-er--"

"Ready!" Miss Brown set the metronome to _tick-tocking_. Then she
consulted a watch.

Gwendolyn raised one hand to her face, and gulped.

"Come! Come! Put your fingers on the keys."

"But my cheek itches."

"Get your position, I say."

Gwendolyn struck a spiritless chord.

Miss Brown gone, Gwendolyn sought the long window-seat and curled up
among its cushions--at the side which commanded the best view of the
General. Straight before that martial figure, on the bridle-path, a man
with a dump-cart and a shaggy-footed horse was picking up leaves. He
used a shovel. And each time he raised it to shoulder-height and emptied
it into his cart, a few of the leaves went whirling away out of
reach--like frightened butterflies. But she had no time to pretend
anything of the kind. A new and a better plan!--this was what she must
prepare. For--heart beating, hands trembling from haste--she had _tried_
the telephone--_and found it dead to every Hello!_

But she was not discouraged. She was only balked.

The talking bird, the bee her mother kept in a bonnet, her father's
harness, and the candles that burned at both ends--if she had _only_
known about them that evening of her seventh anniversary! Ignoring Miss
Royle's oft-repeated lesson that "Nice little girls do not ask
questions," or "worry father and mother," how easy it would have been to
say, "Fath-er, what little bird tells things about you?" and, "Moth-er,
have you _really_ got a bee in your bonnet?"

But--the questions could still be asked. She was balked only
temporarily.

She got down and crossed the room to the white-and-gold writing-desk.
Two photographs in silver frames stood upon it, flanking the
rose-embossed calendar at either side. She took them down, one at a
time, and looked at them earnestly.

The first was of her mother, taken long, long ago, before Gwendolyn was
born. The oval face was delicately lovely and girlish. The mouth curved
in a smile that was tender and sweet.

The second photograph showed a clean-shaven, boyish young man in a
rough business-suit--this was her father, when he first came to the
city. His lips were set together firmly, almost determinedly. But his
face was unlined, his dark eyes were full of laughter.

Despite all the well-remembered commands Miss Royle had issued; despite
Jane's oft-repeated threats and Thomas's warnings, [and putting aside,
too, any thought of what punishment might follow her daring] Gwendolyn
now made a firm resolution: _To see at least one of her parents
immediately and alone_.

As she set the photographs back in their places, she lifted each to kiss
it. She kissed the smiling lips of the one, the laughing eyes of the
other.




CHAPTER V


The crescent of the Drive, never without its pageant; the broad river
thronged with craft; the high forest-fringed precipice and the houses
that could be glimpsed beyond--all these played their part in
Gwendolyn's pretend-games. She crowded the Drive with the soldiers of
the General, rank upon rank of marching men whom he reviewed with pride,
while his great bronze steed pranced tirelessly; and she, a swordless
Joan of Arc in a three-cornered hat and smartly-tailored habit, pranced
close beside to share all honors from the wide back of her own
mettlesome war-horse.

As for the river vessels, she took long pretend-journeys upon
them--every detail of which she carefully carried out. The companions
selected were those smiling friends that appeared at neighboring
windows; or she chose hearty, happy laundresses from the roofs; adding,
by way of variety, some small, bashful acquaintances made at the
dancing-school of Monsieur Tellegen.

But more often, imagining herself a Princess, and the nursery a
prison-tower from the loop-holes of which she viewed the great, free
world, she liked to people the boats out of stories that Potter had told
her on rare, but happy, occasions. A prosaic down-traveling steamer
became the wonderful ship of Ulysses, his seamen bound to smokestacks
and railing, his prow pointed for the ocean whereinto the River crammed
its deep flood. A smaller boat, smoking its way up-stream, changed into
the fabled bark of a man by the name of Jason, and at the bow of this
Argo sat Johnnie Blake, fish-pole over the side, feet dangling, line
trailing, and a silvery trout spinning at the hook. A third boat,
smaller still, and driven forward by oars, bore a sad, level-lying,
white-clad figure--Elaine, dead through the plotting of cruel servants,
and now rowed by the hoary dumb toward a peaceful mooring at the foot of
some far timbered slope.

In each of the houses across the wide river, she often established a
pretend-home. Her father was with her always; her mother, too,--in a
silken gown, with a jeweled chaplet on her head. But her household was
always blissfully free of those whose chief design it was to thwart and
terrify her--Miss Royle, Jane, Thomas; her teachers [as a body]; also,
Policemen, Doctors and Bears. Old Potter was, of course, the
pretend-butler. And Rosa, notwithstanding the fact that she had once
been, while at Johnnie Blake's, the herald of a hated bed-time went as
maid.

Gwendolyn had often secretly coveted the Superintendent's residence in
the Park (so that, instead of straggling along a concrete pavement at
rare intervals, held captive by the hand that was in Jane's, she might
always have the right to race willy-nilly across the grass--chase the
tame squirrels to shelter--_even climb a tree_). But more earnestly did
she covet a house beyond the precipice. Were there not trees there? and
rocks? Without doubt there were Johnnie Blake glades as well--glades
bright with flowers, and green with lacy ferns. For of these glades
Gwendolyn had received proof: Following a sprinkle on a cool day, a
light west wind brought a butterfly against a pane of the front window.
When Gwendolyn raised the sash, the butterfly fluttered in, throwing off
a jeweled drop as he came and alighted upon the dull rose and green of a
flower in the border of the nursery rug. His wings were flat together
and he was tipped to one side, like a skiff with tinted sails. But when
the sails were dry, and parted once more, and sunlight had replaced
shower, he launched forth from the pink landing-place of Gwendolyn's
palm--and sped away and away, due west!

But the view from the _side_ window!

Beyond the line of step-houses, and beyond the buildings where the maids
hung their wash, were roofs. They seemed to touch, to have no streets
between them anywhere. They reached as far as Gwendolyn could see. They
were all heights, all shapes, all varieties as to tops--some being
level, others coming to a point at one corner, a few ending in a tower.
One tower, which was square, and on the outer-most edge of the roofs,
had a clock in its summit. When night settled, a light sprang up behind
the clock--a great, round light that was like a single shining eye.

She did not know the proper name for all those acres of roof. But Jane
called them Down-Town.

At all times they were fascinating. Of a winter's day the snow whitened
them into beauty. The rain washed them with its slanting down-pour till
their metal sheeting glistened as brightly as the sides of the General's
horse. The sea-fog, advanced by the wind, blotted out all but the
nearest, wrapped these in torn shrouds, and heaped itself about the
dun-breathed chimneys like the smoke of a hundred fires.

She loved the roofs far more than Drive or River or wooded expanse; more
because they meant so much--and that without her having to do much
pretending. For across them, in some building which no one had ever
pointed out to her, in a street through which she had never driven, was
her father's office!

She herself often selected the building he was in, placing him first in
one great structure, then in another. Whenever a new one rose, as it
often did, there she promptly moved his office. Once for a whole week he
worked directly under the great glowing eye of the clock.

Just now she was standing at the side window of the nursery looking away
across the roofs. The fat old gentleman at the gray-haired house was
sponging off the rubber-plant, and waving the long green leaves at her
in greeting. Gwendolyn feigned not to see. Her lips were firmly set. A
scarlet spot of determination burned round either dimple. Her gray eyes
smouldered darkly--with a purpose that was unswerving.

"I'm just going down there!" she said aloud.

_Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_

It was Miss Royle, entering. Though Saturday was yet two days away, the
governess was preparing to go out for the afternoon, and was busily
engaged in drawing on her gloves, her glance alternating between her
task and the time-piece on the school-room mantel.

"Gwendolyn dear," said she, "you can have such a _lovely_ long
pretend-game between now and supper, _can't_ you?"

Gwendolyn moved her head up and down in slow assent. Doing so, she
rubbed the tip of her nose against the smooth glass. The glass was cool.
She liked the feel of it.

"You can travel!" enthused Miss Royle. "And _where_ do you think you'll
go?"

The gray eyes were searching the tiers of windows in a distant granite
pile. "Oh, Asia, I guess," answered Gwendolyn, indifferently. (She had
lately reviewed the latter part of her geography.)

"Asia? Fine! And how will you travel, darling? In your sweet car?"

A pause. Miss Royle was habitually honeyed in speech and full of
suggestions when she was setting out thus. She deceived no one. Yet--it
was just as well to humor her.

"Oh, I'll ride a musk-ox. Or"--picking at random from the fauna of the
world--"or a llama, or a'--a' el'phunt." She rubbed her nose so hard
against the glass that it gave out a squeaking sound.

"Then off you go!" and, _Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_

Gwendolyn whirled. This was the moment, if ever, to make her wish
known--to assert her will. With a running patter of slippers, she cut
off Miss Royle's progress.

"That tall building 'way, 'way down on the sky," she panted.

"Yes, dear?"--with a simper.

"Is _that_ where my father is?"

The smirk went. Miss Royle stared down. "Er--why?" she asked.

"'Cause"--the other's look was met squarely--"'cause I'm going down
there to see him."

"Ah!" breathed the governess.

"I'm going to-day," went on Gwendolyn, passionately. "I want to!" Her
lips trembled. "There's something--"

"Something you want to tell him, dear?"--purringly.

Confusion followed boldness. Gwendolyn dropped her chin, and made reply
with an inarticulate murmur.

"Hm!" coughed Miss Royle. (Her _hms_ invariably prepared the way for
important pronouncements.)

Gwendolyn waited--for all the familiar arguments: I can't let you go
until you're sent for, dear; Your papa doesn't want to be bothered; and,
This is probably his busy day.

Instead, "Has anyone ever told you about that street, Gwennie?"

"No,"--still with lowered glance.

"Well, I wouldn't go down into it if _I_ were you." The tone was full of
hidden meaning.

There was a moment's pause. Then, "Why _not?_" asked Gwendolyn, back
against the door. The question was put as a challenge. She did not
expect an answer.

An answer came, however. "Well, I'll tell you: The street is full
of--bears."

Gwendolyn caught her hands together in a nervous grasp. All her life she
had heard about bears--and never any good of them. According to Miss
Royle and Jane, these dread animals--who existed in all colors, and in
nearly all climes--made it their special office to eat up little girls
who disobeyed. She knew where several of the beasts were harbored--in
cages at the Zoo, from where they sallied at the summons of outraged
nurses and governesses.

But as to their being Down-Town--!

She lifted a face tense with earnestness "Is it _true?_" she asked
hoarsely.

"My dear," said Miss Royle, gently reproving, "ask _any_body."

Gwendolyn reflected. Thomas was freely given to exaggeration. Jane, at
times, resorted to bald falsehood. But Gwendolyn had never found reason
to doubt Miss Royle.

She moved aside.

The governess turned to the school-room mirror to take a peep at her
poke, and slung the chain of her hand-bag across her arm. Then, "I'll be
home early," she said pleasantly. And went out by the door leading into
the nursery.

Bears!

Gwendolyn stood bewildered. Oh, _why_ were the Zoo bears in her father's
street? Did it mean that he was in danger?

The thought sent her toward the nursery door. As she went she glanced
back over a shoulder uneasily.

Close to the door she paused. Miss Royle was not yet gone, for there was
a faint rustling in the next room. And Gwendolyn could hear the quick
_shoo-ish, shoo-ish, shoo-ish_ of her whispering, like the low purl of
Johnnie Blake's trout-stream.

Presently, silence.

Gwendolyn went in.

She found Jane standing in the center of the room, mouth puckered
soberly, reddish eyes winking with disquiet, apprehension in the very
set of her heavy shoulders.

The sight halted Gwendolyn, and filled her with misgivings. Had _Jane_
just heard?

When it came time to prepare for the afternoon motor-ride, Gwendolyn
tested the matter--yet without repeating Miss Royle's dire statement.

"Let's go past where my fath-er's office is to-day," she proposed. And
tried to smile.

Jane was tucking a small hand through a coat-sleeve. "Well, dearie," she
answered, with a sigh and a shake of her red head, "you couldn't hire
_me_ to go into that street. And I wouldn't like to see _you_ go."

Gwendolyn paled. "Bears?" she asked. "_Truly?_"

Jane made big eyes. Then turning the slender little figure carefully
about, "Gwendolyn, lovie, _Jane_ thinks you'd better give the idear up."

So it was true! Jane--who was happiest when standing in opposition to
others; who was certain to differ if a difference was possible--Jane
had borne it out!

Moreover, she was frightened! For Gwendolyn was leaning against the
nurse. And she could feel her shaking!

Oh, how one terrible thing followed another!

Gwendolyn felt utterly cast down. And the ride in the swift-flying car
only increased her dejection. For she did not even have the
entertainment afforded by Thomas's enlivening company. He stayed beside
the chauffeur--as he had, indeed, ever since the memorable feast of
peanuts--and avoided turning his haughty black head. Jane was morose.
Now and then, for no apparent reason, she sniffled.

Gwendolyn's mind was occupied by a terrifying series of pictures that
Miss Royle's declaration called up. The central figure of each picture
was her father, his safety threatened. Arrived home, she resolved upon
still another course of action. She was forced to give up visiting her
father at his office. But she would steal down to the grown-up part of
the house--at a time _other_ than the dinner-hour--that very night!

Evening fell, and she was not asked to appear in the great dining-room.
That strengthened her determination. However, to give a hint of it would
be folly. So, while Miss Royle picked at a chop and tittered over
copious draughts of tea, and Thomas chattered unrebuked, she ate her
supper in silence.

Ordinarily she rebelled at being undressed. She was not sleepy. Or she
wanted to watch the Drive. Or she did not believe it was seven--there
was something wrong with the clock. But supper over, and seven o'clock
on the strike, she went willingly to bed.

When Gwendolyn was under the covers, and all the shades were down, Jane
stepped into the school-room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She
snapped on the lights above the school-room table. Then Gwendolyn heard
the crackling of a news-paper.

She lay thinking. Why had she not been asked to the great dining-room?
At seven her father--if all were well--should be sitting down to his
dinner. But was he ill to-night? or hurt?

A half-hour dragged past. Jane left her paper and tiptoed into the
nursery. Gwendolyn did not speak or move. When the nurse approached the
bed and looked down, Gwendolyn shut her eyes.

Jane tiptoed out, closing the door behind her. A moment later Gwendolyn
heard another door open and shut, then the rumble of a man's deep
voice, and the shriller tones of a woman.

The chorus of indistinct voices made Gwendolyn sleepy. She found her
eyelids drooping in spite of herself. That would never do! To keep
herself awake, she got up cautiously, put on her slippers and
dressing-gown, stole to the front window, climbed upon the long seat,
and drew aside the shade--softly.

The night was moonless. Clouds hid the stars. The street lamps disclosed
the crescent of the Drive only dimly. Beyond the Drive the river
stretched like a smooth wide ribbon of black satin. It undulated gently.
Upon the dark water of the farther edge a procession of lights laid a
fringe of gold.

There were other lights--where, beyond the precipice, stood the forest
houses; where moored boats rocked at a landing-place up-stream; and on
boats that were plying past. A few lights made star-spots on the
cliff-side.

But most brilliant of all were those forming the monster letters of
words. These words Gwendolyn did not pronounce. For Miss Royle, whenever
she chanced to look out and see them, said "Shameful!" or "What a
disgrace!" or "Abominable!" And Gwendolyn guessed that the words were
wicked.

As she knelt, peering out, sounds from city and river came up to her.
There was the distant roll of street-cars, the warning; _honk! honk!_ of
an automobile, the scream of a tug; and lesser sounds--feet upon the
sidewalk under the window, low laughter from the dim, tree-shaded walk.

She wondered about her father.

Suddenly there rose to her window a long-drawn cry. She recognized
it--the high-keyed, monotonous cry of a man who often hurried past with
a bundle of newspapers under his arm. Now it startled her. It filled her
with foreboding.

"Uxtra! Uxtra! A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!"

Street! _What_ street? Gwendolyn strained her ears to catch the words.
What if it were the street where her fath--

"Uxtra! Uxtra!" cried the voice again. It was nearer, yet the words were
no clearer. "A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!"

He passed. His cry died in the distance. Gwendolyn let the window-shade
go back into place very gently. To prepare properly for her trip
downstairs meant running the risk of discovery. She tiptoed noiselessly
to the school-room door. There she listened. Thomas's deep voice was
still rumbling on. Punctuating it regularly was a sniffle. And the
key-hole showed a spot of glinting red--Jane's hair.

Gwendolyn left the school-room door for the one opening on the hall.

In the hall were shaded lights. Light streamed up the bronze shaft.
Gwendolyn put her face against the scrolls and peered down. The cage was
far below. And all was still.

The stairs wound their carpeted length before her. She slipped from one
step to another warily, one hand on the polished banisters to steady
herself, the other carrying her slippers. At the next floor she stopped
before crossing the hall--to peer back over a shoulder, to peer ahead
down the second flight.

Outside the high carved door of the library she stopped and put on the
slippers. And she could not forbear wishing that she knew which was
really her best foot, so that she might put it forward. But there was no
time for conjectures. She bore down with both hands on the huge knob,
and pressed her light weight against the panels. The heavy door swung
open. She stole in.

The library had three windows that looked upon the side street. These
windows were all set together, the middle one being built out farther
than the other two, so as to form an embrasure. Over against these
windows, in the shallow bow they formed, was a desk, of dark wood, and
glass-topped. It was scattered with papers and books. Before it sat her
father.

The moment her eyes fell upon him she realized that she had not come any
too soon. For his shoulders were bent as from a great weight. His head
was bowed. His face was covered by his hands.

She went forward swiftly. When she was between the desk and the windows
she stopped, but did not speak. She kept her gray eyes on those
shielding hands.

Presently he sighed, straightened on his chair, and looked at her.

For one instant Gwendolyn did not move--though her heart beat so wildly
that it stirred the lace ruffles of her dressing-gown. Then, remembering
dancing instructions, she curtsied.

A smile softened the stern lines of her father's mouth. It traveled up
his cheeks in little ripples, and half shut his tired eyes. He put out a
hand.

"Why, hello, daughter," he said wearily, but fondly.

She felt an almost uncontrollable desire to throw out her arms to him,
to clasp his neck, to cry, "Oh, daddy! daddy! I don't want them to hurt
you!" But she conquered it, her underlip in her teeth, and put a small
hand in his outstretched one gravely.

"I--I heard the man calling," she began timidly. "And I--I thought maybe
the bears down in your street--"

"Ah, the bears!" He gave a bitter laugh.

So Miss Royle had told the truth! The hand in his tightened its hold.
"Have the bears ever frightened _you?_" she asked, her voice trembling.

He did not answer at once, but put his head on one side and looked at
her--for a full half-minute. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said; "yes,
dear,--once or twice."

She had planned to spy out at least a strap of the harness he wore; to
examine closely what sort of candles, if any, he burned in the seclusion
of the library. Now she forgot to do either; could not have seen if she
had tried. For her eyes were swimming, blinding her.

She swayed nearer him. "If--if you'd take Thomas along on your car," she
suggested chokingly. "He hunted el'phunts once, and--and _I_ don't need
him."

Her father rose. He was not looking at her--but away, beyond the bowed
windows, though the shades of these were drawn, the hangings were in
place. And, "No!" he said hoarsely; "not yet! I'm not through fighting
them _yet!_"

"Daddy!" Fear for him wrung the cry from her.

His eyes fell to her upturned face. And as if he saw the terror there,
he knelt, suddenly all concern. "Who told you about the bears,
Gwendolyn?"--with a note of displeasure.

"Miss Royle."

"That was wrong--she shouldn't have done it. There are things a little
girl can't understand." His eyes were on a level with her brimming ones.

The next moment--"Gwendolyn! _Gwen_dolyn! Oh, where's that child!" The
voice was Jane's. She was pounding her way down the stairs.

Before Gwendolyn could put a finger to his lips to plead for silence,
"Here, Jane," he called, and stood up once more.

Jane came in, puffing with her haste. "Oh, thank you, sir," she cried.
"It give me _such_ a turn, her stealin' off like that! Madam doesn't
like her to be up late, as she well knows. And I'll be blamed for this,
sir, though I take pains to follow out Madam's orders exact," She seized
Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn, eyes dry now, and defiant, pulled back with all the strength
of her slender arm. "Oh, fath-er!" she plead. "Oh, _please_, I don't
want to go!"

"Why! Why! Why!" It was reproval; but tender reproval, mixed with mild
amazement.

"Oh, I want to tell you something," cried Gwendolyn. "Let me stay just a
_minute_."

"That's just the way she acts, sir, whenever it's bed-time," mourned
Jane.

He leaned to lift Gwendolyn's chin gently. "Father thinks she'd better
go now," he said quietly. "And she's not to worry her blessed baby head
any more." Then he kissed her.

The kiss, the knowledge that strife was futile, the sadness of
parting--these brought the great sobs. She went without resisting, but
stumbling a little; the back of one hand was laid against her streaming
eyes.

Half a flight up the stairs, Jane turned her right about at a bend. Then
she dropped the hand to look over the banisters. And through a blur of
tears saw her father watching after her, his shoulders against the
library door.

He threw a kiss.

Then another bend of the staircase hid his upturned face.




CHAPTER VI


Gwendolyn was lying on her back in the middle of the nursery floor. The
skein of her flaxen hair streamed about her shoulders in tangles. Her
head being unpillowed, her face was pink--and pink, too, with wrath. Her
blue-and-white frock was crumpled. She was kicking the rug with both
heels.

It was noon. And Miss Royle was having her dinner. Her face, usually so
pale, was dark with anger--held well in check. Her expression was that
of one who had recently suffered a scare, and her faded eyes shifted
here and there uneasily. Thomas, too, looked apprehensive as he moved
between table and tray. Jane was just gone, showing, as she
disappeared, lips nervously pursed, and a red, roving glance that
betokened worry.

Gwendolyn, watching out from under the arm that rested across her
forehead, realized how her last night's breach of authority had
impressed each one of them. And secretly rejoicing at her triumph, she
kept up a brisk tattoo.

Miss Royle ignored her. "I'll take a little more chocolate, Thomas," she
said, with a fair semblance of calm. But cup and saucer rattled in her
hand.

Thomas, too, feigned indifference to the rat! tat! tat! of heels. He
bent above the table attentively. And to Gwendolyn was wafted down a
sweet aroma.

"Thank you," said Miss Royle. "And cake, _too?_ Splendid! How did you
manage it?" A knife-edge cut against china. She helped herself
generously.

Gwendolyn fell silent to listen.

"Well, I haven't Mr. Potter to thank," said Thomas, warmly; "only my own
forethoughtedness, as you might say. The first time I ever set eyes on
it I seen it was the kind that'd keep, so--"

From under the shielding arm Gwendolyn blinked with indignation. _Her
birthday cake!_

"Say, Miss Royle," chuckled Thomas, replenishing the chocolate cup,
"that was a' _awful_ whack you give Miss J--last night."

At once Gwendolyn forgot the wrong put upon her in the matter of the
cake--in astonishment at this new turn of affairs. Evidently Miss Royle
and Thomas were leagued against Jane!

The governess nodded importantly, "She _was_ only a cook before she came
here," she declared contemptuously. "Down at the Employment Agency,
where Madam got her, they said so. The common, two-faced thing!" This
last was said with much vindictiveness. Following it, she proffered
Thomas the cake-plate.

"Thanks," said he; "I don't mind if I do have a slice."

Now, of a sudden, wrath and resentment possessed Gwendolyn, sweeping her
like a wave--at seeing her cake portioned out; at having her kicking
ignored; at hearing these two openly abuse Jane.

"I want some strawberries," she stormed, pounding the rug full force.
"And an egg. I _won't_ eat dry bread!" Bang! Bang! Bang!

Miss Royle half-turned. "Did you ask to go down to the library?" she
inquired. She seemed totally undisturbed; yet her eyes glittered.

"Did she ask?" snorted Thomas. "She's gettin' very forward, she is."

"No, you knew better," went on Miss Royle. "You _knew_ I wouldn't permit
you to bother your father when he didn't want you--"

"He _did_ want me!"--choking with a sob.

"Think," resumed the governess, inflecting her tones eloquently, "of the
fortune he spends on your dresses, and your pony, and your beautiful
car! And he hires all of us"--she swept a gesture--"to wait on you, you
naughty girl, and try to make a little lady out of you--"

"I hate ladies!" cried Gwendolyn, rapping her heels by way of emphasis.

"Tale-bearing is _vulgar_," asserted Miss Royle.

"Next year I'm going to _day_-school like Johnnie _Blake!_"

"Oh, hush your nonsense!" commanded Thomas, irritably.

Miss Royle glanced up at him. "That will do," she snapped.

He bridled up. "What the little imp needs is a good paddlin'," he
declared.

"Well, _you_ have nothing to do with the disciplining of the child. That
is _my_ business."

"It's what she needs, all the same. The very idear of her bawlin' all
the mornin' at the top of her lungs--"

"I did _not_ at the top of my lungs," contradicted Gwendolyn. "I cried
with my mouth."

"--So's the whole house can hear," continued Thomas; "and beatin' about
the floor. It's clear shameful, _I_ say, and enough to give a sensitive
person the nerves. As I remarked to Jane only---"

"You remark too many things to Jane," interposed the governess, curtly.

Now he sobered. "I _hope_ you ain't displeased with me," he ventured.

"_Ain't_ displeased?" repeated Miss Royle, more than ever fretful. "Oh,
Thomas, _do_ stop murdering the King's English!"

At that Gwendolyn sat up, shook back her hair, and raised a startled
face to the row of toys in the glass-fronted case. Murdering the King's
English! Had he _dared_ to harm her soldier with the scarlet coat?

"I was urgin' your betterin', too, Miss Royle," reminded Thomas, gently.
"I says to Jane, I says--"

The soldier was in his place, safe. Relieved, Gwendolyn straightened out
once more on her back.

"--'The whole lot of us ought to be paid higher wages than we're
gettin' for it's a real trial to have to be under the same roof with
such a provokin'--'"

Miss Royle interrupted by vigorously bobbing her head. "Oh, that I have
to make my living in this way!" she exclaimed, voice deep with
mournfulness. "I'd rather wash dishes! I'd rather scrub floors! I'd
rather _star-r-ve!_"

Something in the vehemence, or in the cadence, of Miss Royle's
declaration again gave Gwendolyn that sense of triumph. With a sudden
curling up of her small nose, she giggled.

Miss Royle whirled with a rustle of silk skirts. "Gwendolyn," she said
threateningly, "if you're going to act like that, I shall know there's
something the matter with you, and I shall certainly call a doctor."

Gwendolyn lay very still. As Thomas glanced down at her, smirking
exultantly, her smile went, and the pink of wrath once more surged into
her face.

"And the doctor'll give nasty medicine," declared Thomas, "or maybe
he'll cut out your appendix!"

"Potter won't let him."

"Potter! Huh!--He'll cut out your appendix, and charge your papa a
thousand dollars. Oh, you bet, them that's naughty always pays the
piper."

Gwendolyn got to her feet. "I _won't_ pay the piper," she retorted. "I'm
going to give all my money to the hand-organ man--_all_ of it. I like
_him_," tauntingly. "But I hate--you."

"_We_ hate a sneak," observed Miss Royle, blandly.

The little figure went rigid. "And I hate _you_," she cried shrilly.
Then buried her face in her hands.

"_Gwen-do-lyn'!_" It was a solemn and horrified warning.

Gwendolyn turned and walked slowly toward the window-seat. Her breast
was heaving.

"Come back and sit in this chair," bade the governess.

Gwendolyn paused, but did not turn.

"Shall I fetch you?"

"Can't I even look out of the window?" burst forth Gwendolyn. "Oh,
you--you--you--" (she yearned to say Snake-in-the--grass!--yet dared
not) "you mean! _mean!_" Her voice rose to a scream.

Miss Royle stood up. "I see that you want to go to bed," she declared.

The torrent of Gwendolyn's anger and resentment surged and broke bounds.
She pivoted, arms tossing, face aflame. There were those wicked words
across the river that each night burned themselves upon the dark. She
had never pronounced them aloud before; but--

"Starch!" she shrilled, stamping a foot, "Villa sites! Borax! _Shirts!_"

Miss Royle gave Thomas a worried stare. He, in turn, fixed her with a
look of alarm. So much Gwendolyn saw before she flung herself down
again, sobbing aloud, but tearlessly, her cheek upon the rug.

She heard Miss Royle rustle toward the school-room; heard Thomas close
the door leading into the hall. There were times--the nursery had seen a
few--when the trio found it well to let her severely alone.

Now only a hoarse lamenting broke the quiet.

It was an hour later when some one tapped on the school-room door--Miss
French, doubtless, since it was her allotted time. The lamentations
swelled then--and grew fainter only when the last foot-fall died away on
the stairs. Then Gwendolyn slept.

Awakening, she lay and watched out through the upper panes of the front
window. Across the square of serene blue framed by curtains and casing,
small clouds were drifting--clouds dazzlingly white. She pretended the
clouds were fat, snowy sheep that were passing one by one.

Thus had snowy flocks crossed above the trout-stream. Oh? where was that
stream? the glade through which it flowed? the shingled cottage among
the trees?

With all her heart Gwendolyn wished she were a butterfly.

Suddenly she sat up. She had found her way alone to the library. Why not
put on hat and coat _and go to Johnnie Blake's?_

She was at the door of the wardrobe before she remembered the kidnapers,
and realized that she dared not walk out alone. But Potter liked the
country. Besides, he knew the way. She decided to ask him to go with
her--old and stooped though he was. Perhaps she would also take the
pretty nurse-maid at the corner. And those who were left behind--Miss
Royle and Thomas and Jane--would all be sorry when she was gone.

But let them fret! Let them weep, and wish her back! She--

That moment she caught sight of the photographs on the writing-desk. She
stood still to look at them. As she looked, both pictured faces
gradually dimmed. For tears had come at last--at the thought of leaving
father and mother--quiet tears that flowed in erratic little S's between
gray eyes and trembling mouth.

How could she forsake _them?_

"Gwendolyn," she half-whispered, "s'pose we just pu-play the Johnnie
Blake Pretend ... Oh, very well,"--this last with all of Miss Royle's
precise intonation.

The heavy brocade hangings were the forest trees. The piano was the
mountain, richly inlaid. The table was the cottage, and she rolled it
nearer the dull rose timber at the side window. The rug was the grassy,
flowery glade; its border, the stream that threaded the glade. Beyond
the stream twisted an unpaved and carefully polished road.

The first part of this particular Pretend was the drive to the
village--carved and enameled, and paneled with woven cane. A hassock did
duty for a runabout that had no top to shut out the sun-light, no
windows to bar the fragrant air. In front of the hassock, a pillow did
duty as a stout dappled pony.

Her father drove. And she sat beside him, holding on to the iron bar of
the runabout seat with one hand, to a corner of his coat with the other;
for not only were the turns sharp but the country road was uneven. The
sun was just rising above the forest, and it warmed her little back. The
fresh breeze caressed her cheeks into crimson, and swirled her hair
about the down-sloping rim of her wreath-encircled hat. That breeze
brought with it the perfume of opening flowers, the fragrance exhaled by
the trees along the way, the essence of the damp ground stirred by hoof
and wheel. Gwendolyn breathed through nostrils swelled to their widest.

Following the drive to the village came the trip up the stream to
trout-pools. Gwendolyn's father led the way with basket and reel. She
trotted at his heels. And beside Gwendolyn trotted Johnnie Blake.

The piano-seat was Johnnie. His eyes were blue, and full of laughter.
His small nose was as freckled as Jane's. His brown hair disposed itself
in several rough heaps, as if it had been winnowed by a tiny whirlwind.

"Good-morning," said Gwendolyn, curtseying.

"Hello!" returned Johnnie--while Gwendolyn smiled at herself in the
pier-glass. Johnnie carried a long willow fishing-pole cut from the
stream-side. Reel he had none, nor basket; and he did not own a belted
outing-suit of hunter's-green, and high buckled boots. He wore a plaid
gingham waist, starched so stiff that its round collar stood up and
tickled his ears. His hat was of straw, and somewhat ragged. His brown
jeans overalls, riveted and suspendered, reached to bare ankles fully as
brown. The overalls were provided with three pockets. Bulging one was
his round tin drinking-cup which was full of worms.

"Are there p'liceman in these woods?" inquired Gwendolyn.

"Nope," said Johnnie.

"Are there bears?"

"Nope."

"Are there doctors?"

"Nope. But there's snakes--some."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of snakes. I've got one at home. It's long and
black, and it's got a wooden tongue."

"'Fraid to go barefoot?"

"Oh, I wish I could!"

Here she glanced over a shoulder toward the school-room; then toward the
hall. Did she dare?

"Well, you're little yet," explained Johnnie. "But just you wait till
you grow up."

"Are--are _you_ grown-up?"--a trifle doubtfully.

"Of _course_, I'm grown up! Why, I'm _seven_." Whereat she strode up and
down, hands on hips, in feeble imitation of Johnnie.

But here the inclination for further make-believe died utterly--at a
point where, usually, Johnnie threw back his head with a triumphant
laugh, gave a squirrel-like leap into the air (from the top of the
nursery table), caught the lower branch of a tall, slim tree (the
chandelier), and swung himself to and fro with joyous abandon. For
Gwendolyn suddenly remembered the cruel truth borne out by the ink-line
on the pier-glass. And instead of climbing upon the table, she went to
stand in front of her writing-desk.

"I was seven my last birthday," she murmured, looking up at the
rose-embossed calendar.

Seven, and grown-up--and yet everything was just the same!

She went to the front window and knelt on the cushioned seat. Across the
river red smoke was pouring up from those chimneys on the water's edge
that were assuredly a mile high. Red smoke meant that evening was
approaching. Jane would enter soon. With two in the nursery, the
advantage was for her who did not have to make the overtures of peace.
She turned her back to the room.

Jane came. She drew the heavy curtain