Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.





[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 curtains at the side window and busied
herself in the vicinity of the bed, moving about quietly, saying not a
word. Presently she went out.

Gwendolyn faced round. The bed was arranged for the night. At its head,
on the small table, was a glass of milk, a sandwich, a cup of broth, a
plate of cooked fruit.

The western sky faded--to gray, to deep blue, to jade. The river flowed
jade beneath. Along it the lights sprang up. Then came the stars.

Gwendolyn worked at the buttons of her slippers. The tears were falling
again; but not tears of anger or resentment--only of loneliness, of
yearning.

The little white-and-blue frock fastened down the front. She undid it,
weeping softly the while, found her night-dress, put it on and climbed
into bed.

The food was close at hand. She did not touch it. She was not hungry,
only worn with her day-long combat. She lay back among the pillows. And
as she looked up at the stars, each sent out gay little flashes of light
to every side.

"Oh, moth-er!" she mourned. "Everybody hates me! Everybody hates me!"

Then came a comforting thought: She would play the Dearest Pretend!

It was easy to make believe that a girlish figure was seated in the dark
beside the bed; that a tender face was bending down, a gentle hand
touching the troubled forehead, stroking the tangled hair.

"Oh, I want you all the time, moth-er!... And I want _you_, my precious
baby.... How much do you love me, moth-er?... Love you?--oh, big as the
sky!... Dear moth-er, may I eat at the grown-up table?... All the time,
sweetheart.... Goody! And we'll just let Miss Royle eat with Jane
and--"

She caught a stealthy _rustle! rustle! rustle!_ from the direction of
the hall. She spoke more low then, but continued to chatter, her
pretend-conversation, loving, confidential, and consoling.

Finally, "Moth-er," she plead, "will you please sing?"

She sang. Her voice was husky from crying. More than once it quavered
and broke. But the song was one she had heard in the long, raftered
living-room at Johnnie Blake's. And it soothed.

    "Oh, it is not while beauty and youth are thine o-o-own,
     And thy cheek is unstained by a tear,
     That the fervor and faith of a soul can be kno-o-own--"

It grew faint. It ended--in a long sigh. Then one small hand in the
gentle make-believe grasp of another, she slept.




CHAPTER VII


Miss Royle looked sober as she sipped her orange-juice. And she cut off
the top of her breakfast egg as noiselessly as possible. Her directions
to Thomas, she half-whispered, or merely signaled them by a wave of her
coffee-spoon. Now and then she glanced across the room to the
white-and-gold bed. Then she beamed fondly.

As for Thomas, he fairly stole from tray to table, from table to tray,
his face all concern. Occasionally, if his glance followed Miss Royle's,
he smiled--a broad, sympathetic smile.

And Jane was subdued and solicitous. She sat beside the bed, holding a
small hand--which from time to time she patted encouragingly.

After the storm, calm. The more tempestuous the storm, the more perfect
the calm. This was the rule of the nursery. Gwendolyn, lying among the
pillows, wished she could always feel weak and listless. It made
everyone so kind.

"Thomas," said Miss Royle, as she folded her napkin and rustled to her
feet, "you may call up the Riding School and say that Miss Gwendolyn
will not ride to-day."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And, Jane, you may go out for the morning. I shall stay here."

"Thanks," acknowledged Jane, in a tone quite unusual for her. She did
not rise, however, but waited, striving to catch Thomas's eye.

"And, Thomas," went on the governess, "when would _you_ like an hour?"

Thomas advanced with a bow of appreciation. "If it's all the same to
you, Miss Royle," said he, "I'll have a bit of an airin' directly after
supper this evenin'."

Jane glared.

"Very well." Miss Royle rustled toward the school-room, taking a survey
of herself in the pier-glass as she went. "Jane," she added, "you will
be free to go in half an hour." She threw Gwendolyn a loud kiss.

Thomas was directing his attention to the clearing of the
breakfast-table. The moment the door closed behind the governess, Jane
shot up from her chair and advanced upon him.

"You ain't treatin' me fair," she charged, speaking low, but breathing
fast. "You ain't takin' your hours off duty along with me no more.
You're givin' me the cold shoulder."

At that, Gwendolyn turned her head to look. Of late, she had heard not a
few times of Thomas's cold shoulder--this in heated encounters between
him and Jane. She wondered which of his shoulders was the cold one.

Thomas lifted his upper lip in a sneer. "Indeed!" he replied. "I'm not
treatin' you fair? Well," (with meaning) "I didn't think you was
botherin' your head about anybody--except a certain policeman."

Back jerked Jane's chin. "Can't I have a gentleman friend?" she demanded
defensively.

"Ha! ha! Gentleman friend!" Then, addressing no one in particular, "My!
but don't a uniform take a woman's eye!"

"Why, Thomas!" It was a sorrowful protest. "You misjudge, you really
_do_."

So far there was no fresh element in the misunderstanding. Thus the two
argued time and again. Gwendolyn almost knew their quarrel by heart.

But now Thomas came round upon Jane with a snarl. "You're not foolin'
me," he declared. "Don't you think I know that policeman's heels over
head?" He shook his crumb-knife at her. "_Heels over head!_" Then
seizing the tray and swinging it up, he stalked out.

Jane fell to pacing the floor. Her reddish eyes roved angrily.

Heels over head! Gwendolyn, pondering, now watched the nurse, now looked
across to where, on its shelf, was poised the toy somersault man. If one
of the uniformed men she dreaded was heels over head--

"But, Jane."

"Well? Well?"

"I saw the p'liceman walking on his feet _yesterday_."

"Hush your silly talk!"

Gwendolyn hushed, her gray eyes wistful, her mouth drooping. The morning
had been so peaceful. Now Jane had spoken the first rough word.

Peace returned with Miss Royle, who came in with the morning paper,
dismissed Jane, and settled down in the upholstered chair, silver-rimmed
spectacles on nose.

The brocade hangings of the front window were only partly drawn. Between
them, Gwendolyn made out more of those fat sheep straying down the azure
field of the sky. She lay very still and counted them; and, counting,
slept, but restlessly, with eyes only half-shut and nervous starts.

Awakening at noon the listlessness was gone, and she felt stronger. Her
eyes were bright, too. There was a faint color in cheeks and lips.

"Miss Royle!"

"Yes, darling?" The governess leaned forward attentively.

"I can understand why you call Thomas a footman. It's 'cause he runs
around so much on his feet--"

"You're better," said Miss Royle. She turned her paper inside out.

"But one day you said he was all ears, and--"

"Gwendolyn!" Miss Royle stared down over her glasses. "Never repeat what
you hear me say, love. It's tattling, and tattling is ill-bred. Now,
what can I give you?"

Gwendolyn wanted a drink of water.

When Thomas appeared with the dinner-tray, he gave an impressive wag of
the head. "_What_ do you think I've got for you?" he asked--while Miss
Royle propped Gwendolyn to a sitting position.

Gwendolyn did not try to guess. She was not interested. She had no
appetite.

Thomas brought forward a silver dish. "It's a bird!" he announced, and
lifted the cover.

Gwendolyn looked.

It was a small bird, richly browned. A tiny sprig of parsley garnished
it on either side. A ribbon of bacon lay in crisp flutings across it.
Its short round legs were up-thrust. On the end of each was a paper
frill.

"_Don't_ it look delicious!" said Thomas warmly. "Don't it tempt!"

But Gwendolyn regarded it without enthusiasm. "What kind of a bird is
it?" she asked.

Thomas displayed a second dish--Bermuda potatoes the size of her own
small fist. "Who knows?" said he. "It might be a robin, it might be a
plover, it might be a quail."

"It might be a--a talking-bird," said Gwendolyn. She poked the bird with
a fork.

"Not likely," declared Thomas.

Gwendolyn turned away.

"Ain't it to your likin'?" asked Thomas, surprised. He did not take the
plate at once, in his usual fashion.

"I--I don't want anything," she declared.

"Oh, but maybe you'd fancy an egg."

Gwendolyn took a glass of water.

"It's just as well," said Miss Royle. When she resigned her place
presently, she talked to Jane in undertones,--so that Gwendolyn could
hear only disconnectedly: "...Think it would be the safest thing ...
she gets any worse.... Never do, Jane ... find out by themselves.... She
won't be home till late to-night ... some grand affair. But he ...
though of course I'm sorry to have to."

The moment Miss Royle was well away, Jane had a plan. "_I_ think you're
gittin' on so fine that you can hop up and dress," she declared, noting
how the gray eyes sparkled, and how pink were the round spots on
Gwendolyn's cheeks.

Gwendolyn had nothing to say.

Jane ran to the wardrobe and took out a dress. It was a new one, of
cream-white wool; and on a sleeve, as well as on the corners of the
sailor collar and the tips of the broad tie, scarlet anchors were
embroidered.

Gwendolyn smiled. But it was not the anchors that charmed forth the
smile. It was a pocket, set like a shield on the blouse--an adorable
patch-pocket!

"Oh!" she cried; "did They make me that pocket? Jane, how sweet!"

"One, two, three," said Jane, briskly, "and we'll have this on! Let's
see by the clock how quick you can jump into it!"

The clock was a familiar method of inducing Gwendolyn to do hastily
something she had not thought of doing at all. She shook her head.

"Why, it'd do you _good_, pettie,"--this coaxingly.

"It's too warm to dress," said Gwendolyn.

Jane flung the garment back into the wardrobe without troubling to hang
it up, and banged the wardrobe door. But she did not again broach the
subject of getting up. A hint of uneasiness betrayed itself in her
manner. She took a chair by the bed.

Gwendolyn's whole face was gradually taking on a deep flush, for those
flaming spots on her cheeks were spreading to throat and temples--to her
very hair. She kept her hands in constant motion. Next, the small tongue
began to babble uninterruptedly.

It was the overlively talking that made Jane certain that Gwendolyn was
ill. She leaned to feel of the busy hands, the throbbing forehead. Then
she hastily telephoned Thomas.

"Have we any more of that quietin' medicine?" she asked as he opened the
door.

"It's all gone. Why?"

The two forgot their differences, and bent over Gwendolyn.

She smiled up, and nodded. "All the clouds in the sky are filled with
wind," she declared; "like automobile tires. Toy-balloons are, I know.
Once I put a pin in one, and the wind blew right out. I s'pose the
clouds in the South hold the south wind, and the clouds in the North
hold the north wind, and the clouds--"

"Jane," said Thomas, "we've got to have a doctor."

Gwendolyn heard. She saw Jane spring to the telephone. The next instant,
with a piercing scream that sent her canary fluttering to the top of its
cage, she flung herself sidewise.

"Jane! Oh, don't! Jane! He'll kill me! _Jane!_"

Jane fell back, and caught Gwendolyn in her arms. The little figure was
all a-tremble, both small hands were beating the air in wild protest.

"Jane! Oh, I'll be good! I'll be good!" She hid her face against the
nurse, shuddering.

"But you're sick, lovie. And a doctor would make you well. There! There!
Listen to Jane, dearie."

Thomas laid an anxious hand on the yellow head. "The doctor won't hurt
you," he declared. "He only gives bread-pills, anyhow."

"_No-o-o!_" She flung herself back upon the bed, catching at the pillows
as if to hide beneath them, writhing pitifully, moaning, beseeching with
terrified eyes.

Jane and Thomas stared helplessly at each other, their faces guilty and
frightened.

"Dearie!" cried Jane; "hush and we won't--Oh, Thomas, I'm fairly
distracted!--Pettie, we _won't_ have the doctor."

Gradually Gwendolyn quieted. Then carefully, and by degrees, Jane
approached the matter of medical aid in a new way.

"We'll just telephone," she declared, "We wont let any old doctor come
here--not a _bit_ of it. We'll ask him to send something. Is _that_ all
right. _Please_, darlin'."

Reluctantly, Gwendolyn yielded. "The medicine'll be awful nasty," she
faltered.

To that Jane made no reply. Her every freckle was standing out clearly.
Her reddish eyes bulged. She hunted a number in the telephone-directory
with fumbling fingers. After which she held the receiver to her ear with
a shaking hand. "Everything's goin' wrong," she mourned.

Huddled into a little ball, and still as a frightened bird, Gwendolyn
listened to the message.

"Hello!... Hello! Is this the Doctor speakin'?... Oh, this is Miss
Gwendolyn's nurse, sir.... _Yes_ sir. Well, Miss Gwendolyn's a little
nervous to-day, sir. Not sick enough to call you in, sir.... But I was
goin' to ask if you couldn't send something soothin'. She's been cryin'
like, that's all.... Yes, sir, and wakeful--"

"A little hysterical yesterday," prompted Thomas, in a low voice.

"A little hysterical yesterday," went on Jane. "...Yes, sir, by
messenger.... I'll be _most_ careful, sir.... Thank you, sir."

Jane and Thomas combined to make the remainder of the afternoon less
dull. One by one the favorite toys came down from the second shelf. And
a miniature circus took place on the rug beside the bed--a circus in
which each toy played a part. Gwendolyn's fear was charmed away. She
laughed, and drank copious draughts of water--delicious bubbling water
that Thomas poured from tall bottles.

Jane had her own supper beside the white-and-gold bed--coffee and a
sandwich only. Gwendolyn still had no appetite, but seemed almost her
usual self once more. So much so that when she asked questions, Jane was
cross, and counseled immediate sleep.

"But I'm not a bit sleepy," declared Gwendolyn. "It'll be moonlight
after while, Jane. May I look out at the Down-Town roofs?"

"You may stop your botherin'," retorted Jane, "and make up your mind to
go to sleep. You've give me a' awful day. Now try just forty winks."

"Why do you always say forty?" inquired Gwendolyn. "Couldn't I take
forty-one?"

"_Hush!_"

After supper came the medicine--a dark liquid. Gwendolyn eyed it
anxiously. Thomas was gone. Jane opened the bottle and measured a
teaspoonful into a drinking-glass.

"Do I have to take it now?" asked Gwendolyn.

"To-morrow you'll wake up as good as new," asserted Jane. She touched
her tongue with the spoon, then smacked her lips. "Why, dearie, it's--"

She was interrupted. From the direction of the side window there came a
burst of instrumental music. With it, singing the words of a waltz from
a popular opera, blended a thin, cracked voice.

Before Jane could put out a restraining hand, Gwendolyn bounced to her
knees. "Oh, it's the old hand-organ man!" she cried. "It's the old
hand-organ man! Oh, where's some money? I want to give him some money!"

Jane threw up both hands wildly. "Oh, did I ever have such luck!" she
exclaimed. Then, between her teeth, and pressing Gwendolyn back upon the
pillows, "You lay down or I'll shake you!"

"Oh, please let him stay just this time!" begged Gwendolyn; "I like him,
Jane!"

"I'll stay him!" promised Jane, grimly. She marched to the side window,
threw up the sash and leaned out. "Here, you!" she called down roughly.
"You git!"

"Oh, Jane!" plead Gwendolyn.

The thin, cracked voice fell silent. The waltz slowed its tempo, then
came to a gasping stop.

"How's a body to git a child asleep with that old wheeze of yours
goin'?" demanded Jane. "We don't _want_ you here. Move along!"

"He could play me to sleep," protested Gwendolyn.

A reply to Jane's order was shrilled up--something defiant.

"He'd only excite you, darlin'," declared Jane. She was on her knees at
the window, and turned her head to speak. "I can't have that rumpus in
the street with you so nervous."

Gwendolyn sighed.

"Take your medicine, dearie," went on Jane. She stayed where she was.

Promptly, Gwendolyn sat up and reached for the glass. To hold it, to
shake it about and potter in the strange liquid with a spoon, would be
some compensation for having to drink it.

"If that mean old creature didn't make faces!" grumbled Jane. She was
leaning forward to look out.

"_How_ did he make faces, Jane?" asked Gwendolyn. "Were they nice ones?"
She lifted the glass to take a whiff of its contents. "I'd like to see
him make faces."

She put the spoon into Jane's half-empty coffee-cup; then let the
medicine run up the side of the glass until it was almost to her lips.
She tasted it. It tasted good! She hesitated a second; then drained the
glass.

The street was quiet. Jane rose to her feet and came over. "Did you do
as I said?" she asked.

"Yes, Jane."

"Now, _did_ you?" Jane picked up the glass, looked into it, then at
Gwendolyn. "Honest?"

"Yes,--every sip."

"_Gwendolyn?_" Jane held her with doubting eyes. "I don't believe it!"

"But I _did!_"

Jane bent down to the cup, sniffed it, then smelled of the glass.

"Gwendolyn," she said solemnly, "I know you did _not_ take your
medicine. You poured it into this cup."

"But I _didn't!_"

"I _seen_." Jane pointed an accusing finger.

"How _could_ you?" demanded Gwendolyn. "You were looking at the brick
house."

"I've got eyes in the back of my head. And I seen you _plain_ when I was
lookin' straight the other way."

"A-a-aw!" laughed Gwendolyn, skeptically.

"They're hid by my braids," went on Jane, "but they're there. And I seen
you throw away that medicine, you bad girl!" Again she leaned to
examine the coffee-cup.

"Miss Royle said you had two faces," admitted Gwendolyn. She stared hard
at the coiled braids on the back of Jane's head. The braids were pinned
close together. No pair of eyes was visible.

Jane straightened resolutely, seized the medicine-bottle and the spoon,
poured out a second dose, and proffered it. "Come, now!" she said
firmly. "You ain't a-goin' to git ahead of me with your cuteness. Take
this, and go to sleep."

"Bu-but--"

That moment a shrill whistle sounded from the street.

"_There_ now!" cried Jane, triumphantly. "The policeman's right here. I
can call him up whenever I like."

Gwendolyn drank.

Jane tossed the spoon aside, corked the bottle and went back to the
open window. "You go to sleep," she commanded.

Gwendolyn, lying flat, was murmuring to herself. "Oo-oo! How funny!" she
said, "Oo-oo!"

"Now, don't let me hear another word out of you!" warned Jane.

Gwendolyn turned her head slowly from side to side. A great light of
some kind was flaming against her eyes--a light shot through and through
with black, whirling balls. Where did it come from?

It stayed. And grew. Her eyes widened with wonderment. A smile curved
her lips.

Then suddenly she rose to a sitting posture, threw out both arms, and
gave a little choking cry.




CHAPTER VIII


It was a cry of amazement. For suddenly--so suddenly that she did not
have time to think how it had happened--she found herself _up and
dressed_, and standing alone, gazing about her, _in the open air!_

But there were no high buildings on any side, no people passing to and
fro, no motor-cars flashing by. And the grass underfoot was not the
grass of a lawn, evenly cut and flowerless; it was tall, so that it
brushed the hem of her dress, and blossom-dotted.

She looked up at the sky. It was not the sky of the City, distant, and
marbled with streaks of smoke. It was close and clear; starless, too;
and no moon hung upon it. Yet though it was night there was light
everywhere--warm, glowing, roseate.

By that radiant glow she saw that she was in the midst of trees! Some
were tall and slender and clean-barked; others were low and thick of
trunk, but with the wide shapely spread of the great banyan in her
geography; and, towering above the others, were the giants of that
forest, unevenly branched, misshapen, aslant, and rugged with wart-like
burls.

"Is--is this the Park?" she said aloud, still looking around. "Or--or
the woods across the River?"

But there was no sign of a paved walk, such as traced patterns through
the Park; nor of a chimney, to mark the whereabouts of a house. Behind
her the ground sloped gently up to a wooded rise; in front of her it
sloped as gently down to the edge of a narrow, noisy mountain stream.

"Why, I'm at Johnnie Blake's!" she cried--then glanced over a shoulder
cautiously. If this were indeed the place she had longed to revisit, it
would be advisable to keep as quiet as possible, lest someone should
hear her, and straightway come to take her home.

Still watching backward apprehensively, she pushed through the grass to
the edge of the stream.

The moment she reached it she knew that it was not the trout-stream
along which she had wandered while her father fished. It was, in fact,
not ordinary water at all, but something lighter, more sparkling with
color, swifter, and louder. It effervesced, so that a creamy mist lay
along its surface--this the smoke of bursting bubbles. It was like the
bottled water she drank at her nursery meals!

Hands clasped, she leaned to stare down. "Isn't it _funny!_" she
exclaimed half under her breath.

A voice answered her--from close at hand. It was a thin, cracked voice.
"This is where They get their soda-water," it said.

She turned, and saw him.

He was a queer little old thick-set, dark-skinned gentleman, with
grizzled whiskers, a ragged hat and baggy trousers. His eyes were round
and black under his brows, which were square and long-haired, and not
unlike a certain new hand-brush that Jane wielded of a morning across
Gwendolyn's small finger-tips. Over one shoulder, by a strap, hung a
dark box, half-hidden by a piece of old carpet. In one hand he held a
huge, curved knife.

Though she could not remember ever having seen him at Johnnie Blake's;
and though the curved knife was in pattern the true type of a
kidnaper's weapon, and the look out of those round, dark eyes, as he
strode toward her, was not at all friendly, she did not scamper away.
She waited, her heart beating hard. When he halted, she curtsied.

"I've--I've always wondered about soda-water," she faltered, trying to
smile. "But when I asked--"

"Um!" he grunted; then, with a sidewise jerk of the head, "Take a
drink."

She lifted eager eyes. "All I _want_ to?" she half-whispered.

He nodded. "Sip! Lap! Tipple!"

"Oo!" Fairly beaming with delight, she knelt down. For the first time in
her life she could have all the soda-water she wanted!

First, she put the tip of one finger into the rushing sparkle, slowly,
to lengthen out her joy. Next, with a little laugh, she sank her whole
hand. Bubbles formed upon it,--all sizes of them--standing out like
dewdrops upon leaves. The bubbles cooled. And tempted her thirst. With a
deep breath, she bent forward until her red mouth touched the shimmering
surface. Thus, lying prone, with arms spread wide, she drank deep of the
flow.

When she straightened and sat back upon her heels, she made an
astonishing discovery: The trees that studded the slope were not covered
with leaves, like ordinary trees! Each branched to hold lights--myriads
of lights! Some of these shone steadily; others burned with a hissing
sound; others were silent enough, but rose and fell, jumped and
flickered. It was these countless lights that illumed the forest like a
pink sun.

She rose. There was wonder in the gray eyes. "Are these Christmas
trees?" she said. "Where am I?"

"You've had your soda-water," he answered shortly. "You ought to know."

"Yes, I--I ought to know. But--I don't."

He grunted.

"I s'pose," she ventured timidly, "that nobody ever answers questions
here, either."

He looked uncomfortable. "Yes," he retorted, "_every_body does."

"Then,"--advancing an eager step--"why don't _you?_"

He mopped his forehead. "Well--well--if I must, I must: This is where
all the lights go when they're put out at night."

"Oh!" And now as she glanced from tree to tree she saw that what he had
said was true. For the greater part of the lights were electric bulbs;
while many were gas-jets, and a few kerosene-flames.

Still marveling, her look chanced to fall upon herself. And she found
that she was not wearing a despised muslin frock! Her dress was
gingham!--an adorable plaid with long sleeves, and a patch-pocket low
down on the right side!

"You darling!" she exclaimed happily, and thrust a hand into the pocket.
"I guess They made it!"

Next she looked down at her feet--and could scarcely believe! She had on
no stockings! She did not even have on slippers. _She was barefoot!_

Then, still fearful that there was some mistake about it all, she put a
hand to her head; and found her hair-bow gone! In its place, making a
small floppy double knot, was a length of black shoe-string!

"Oh, goody!" she cried.

"Um!" grunted the little old gentleman. "And you can play in the water
if you'd like to."

That needed no urging! She was face about on the instant.

From the standpoint of messing the soda-stream was ideal. It brawled
around flat rocks, set at convenient jumping-distances from one another.
(She leaped promptly to one of these and sopped her handkerchief.) It
circled into sand-bottomed pools just shallow enough for wading; and
from the pools, it spread out thinly to thread the grass, thus giving
her an opportunity for squashing--a diverting pastime consisting in
squirting equal parts of water and soil ticklishly through the toes. She
hopped from rock to pool; she splashed from pool to long, wet, muddy
grass.

It was the water-play that brought the realization of all her new
good-fortune--the being out of doors and plainly clad; free from the
espionage of a governess; away from the tyranny of a motor-car;
barefoot; and--chief blessing of all!--_nurseless_.

Forgetting the little old gentleman, in a sudden excess of glee she
seized a stick and bestrode it; seized another and belabored the
quarters of a stout dappled pony; pranced, reared, kicked up her wet
feet, shied wildly--

Then, both sticks cast aside, she began to dance; at first with
deliberation, holding out the gingham dress at either side, and mincing
through the steps taught by Monsieur Tellegen. But gradually she forsook
rhythm and measure; capering ceased; the dance became fast and furious.
Hallooing, she raced hither and thither among the trees, tossing her
arms, darting down at the flowers and flinging them high, swishing her
yellow hair from side to side, leaping exultantly toward the lights,
pivoting--

Suddenly she found that she was dancing to music!--not the laboriously
strummed notes of a piano, such as were beaten out by the firm-striding
Miss Brown; not the clamorous, deafening, tuneless efforts of an
orchestra. This was _real_ music--inviting, inspiring, heavenly!

It was a hand-organ!

She halted, spell-bound. He was playing, turning the crank with a swift,
steady motion, his ragged hat tipped to one side.

Now she understood the box hanging from its strap. She danced up to him,
and held out a hand. "Why, you're the _hand-organ_ man!" she panted
breathlessly. "And you got here as quick as I did!"

He stopped playing, "I'm the hand-organ man when I'm in town," he
corrected. "Here, in the Land of the Lights, I'm the Man-Who-Makes-Faces."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces! She looked at him with new interest. "Why, of
course you are," she acknowledged. "Sometimes you make 'em in town."

"Sometimes in town I make an ugly one," he retorted. Whereupon he
shouldered the hand-organ, grasped the curved knife, and started away.
As he walked, he called aloud to every side, like a huckster.

"Here's where you get your ears sharpened!" he sang. "_Ears_ sharpened!
_Eyes_ sharpened! Edges taken off of tongues!"

She trotted beside him, head up, gray eyes wide, lips parted. He was
ascending a gentle rise toward a low hill not far distant. As she drew
away from the stream and the glade, she heard, from somewhere far
behind, a shrill voice. It called a name--a name strangely familiar. She
paid no heed.

At the summit of the little hill, under some trees, he paused, and waved
the kidnaper knife in circles. "_Ears_ to sharpen!" he shrilled again.
"_Eyes_ to sharpen! Edges taken off of tongues!"

She smiled up at him engagingly, noting how his gray hair hung over the
back of his collar. She felt no fear of him whatever. "I think you're
nice, Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she announced presently. "I'm so glad I
can look straight at you. I didn't know you, 'cause your voice is
different, and 'cause I'd never seen you before 'cept when I was looking
_down_ at you."

He had been ignoring her. But now, "Wasn't my fault that we didn't meet
face to face," he retorted. Though his voice was still cross, his round,
bright eyes were almost kind. "If you'll remember I often came under
your window."

"And I threw you money," she answered, nodding brightly. "I wanted to
come down and talk to you, oh, lots of times, only--"

At that, he relented altogether. And, reaching out, shook hands
cordially. "Wouldn't you like," said he, "to have a look at my
establishment?" He jerked a thumb over a shoulder. "Here's where I make
faces."

In the City she had seen many wonderful shops, catching glimpses of some
from the little window of her car, visiting others with Miss Royle or
Jane. Among the former were those fascinating ones, usually low of
ceiling and dark with coal-dust, where grimy men in leather aprons tried
shoes on horses; and those horrifying places past which she always drove
with closed eyes--places where, scraped white and head downward, hung
little pigs, pitiful husks of what they once had been, flanked on either
hand by long-necked turkeys with poor glazed eyes; and once she had seen
a wonderful shop in which men were sawing out flat pieces of stone, and
writing words on them with chisels.

But this shop of the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was the most interesting of
all.

It occupied a square of hard-packed ground--a square as broad as the
nursery. And curiously enough, like the nursery, it had, marking it off
all the way around its outer edge, a border of flowers!

It was shaded by one huge tree.

"Lime-tree," explained the little old gentleman. "And the lights--"

"Don't tell me!" she cried. "I know! They're lime lights."

These made the shop exceedingly bright. Full in their glare, neatly
disposed, were two short-legged tables, a squat stool, and a high, broad
bill-board.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seated himself on the stool at one of the tables
and began working industriously.

But Gwendolyn could only stand and stare about her, so amazed that she
was dumb. For in front of the little old gentleman, and spread handily,
were ears and eyes, noses and mouths, cheeks and chins and foreheads.
And upon the bill-board, pendant, were toupees and side-burns and
mustaches, puffs, transformations and goatees--and one coronet braid (a
red one) glossy and thick and handsome!

The bill-board also held an assortment of tongues--long and scarlet.
These, a score in all, were ranged in a shining row. And underneath them
was a sign which bore this announcement:

    _Tongues In All Languages
        Dead or Modern
         Chic if Seven
     Are Purchased at Once_.

Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "Oo! how _nice!_" she exclaimed, finding
her voice again.

"Quite so," said the little old gentleman, shoving away a tray of chins
and cheeks and reaching for a forehead. "Welcome, convenient, and
satisfactory."

She saw her opportunity. "Please," she began, "I'd like to buy six." She
counted on her fingers. "I'll have a French tongue, a German tongue, a
Greek tongue, a Latin tongue, and--later, though, if you don't happen
to have 'em on hand--a Spanish and an Italian." Then she heaved a sigh
of relief. "I'm glad I saw these," she added. "They'll save me a lot of
work. And they've helped me about a def'nition. I looked for 'lashing'
in my big dictionary. And it said 'to whip.' But _I_ couldn't see how
anybody could whip anybody else with a _tongue_. Now, though--"

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces nodded. "Just wait till you see the King's
English," he bragged.

"The King's English? Will I see him?"

"Likely to," he answered, selecting an eye. He had all his eyes about
him in a circle, each looking as natural as life. There were blue eyes
and brown eyes, hazel eyes and--

"Ah!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I remember! It was _you_ who gave the
Policeman a black eye!"

"One _fine_ black eye," he answered, chuckling as he poked about in a
pile of noses and selected a large-sized one. "Yes! Yes! And recently I
made a lovely blue pair for a bad-tempered child who'd cried her own
eyes out."

She assented. She had heard of just such a case. "Once I saw some eyes
in a shop-window," she confided. "It was a shop where you could buy
spectacles."

He wagged his beard proudly. "I made every _one_ of 'em!" he boasted.
"Oh, yes, indeed." And polished away at the tip of the large nose.

She considered for a moment. "I'm glad I know," she said gravely. "I
wanted to, awful much."

After that she studied the bill-board for a time. And presently
discovered that a second supply of eyes was displayed there, being set
in it as jewels are set in brooches!

She pointed. "What kind are those?"

He looked surprised at the question. "The bill-board is the rear wall of
my shop," said he. "And those eyes are wall-eyes."

She flushed with pleasure. "That's _exactly_ what I thought!" she
declared.

She began to walk up and down, one hand in the patch-pocket--to make
sure it was really there. For this was all too good to be true. Here, in
this Land so new to her, and so wonderful, were things about which she
had pondered, and puzzled, and asked questions--the tongues, for
instance, and the lime-lights, and the soda-water. How simply and
naturally each was now explained!--explained as she herself had
imagined each would be. She felt a sudden pride in herself. So far had
anything been really unexpected? As she went back to pause in front of
the little old gentleman, it was with a delightful sense of
understanding. Oh, this was one of her pretend-games, gloriously come
true!

Now she felt a very flood of questions surge to her lips. She pointed to
a deep yellow bowl set on the table beside him. "Would you mind telling
me what that is?" she asked.

"That? That's a sauce-box." And he smiled.

"Oh!--What's it full of, please?"

"Full of mouths,"--cheerily.

It was her turn to smile. She smiled into the sauce-box. At its center
was a queer object, very like a short length of dried apple-peeling.

"I s'pose that's part of a mouth?" she ventured.

He picked up the object and balanced it across his thumb. "You've
guessed it!" he declared. "And it's a fine thing to carry around with
one. You see, it's a stiff upper lip." He tossed it back.

"My!" She took a deep breath. "Once I asked and _asked_ about a stiff
upper lip."

He went on with his polishing. "Should think you'd be more interested in
these," he observed, giving a nod of the ragged hat toward a shallow
dish at his elbow. "Little girls generally are."

She looked, and saw that the dish was heaped high with what seemed to be
_white peanuts_--peanuts that tapered to a point at one end. She
puckered her brows over them.

"Can't guess?" said he. "Then you didn't drink enough of that
soda-water. Well, ever hear of a sweet tooth?"

At that she clapped her hands and jumped up and down. "Why, I've _got_
one!" she cried.

"Oh?" said the little old gentleman. "Thought so. I _always_ keep a
supply on hand. Carve 'em myself, out of cube sugar."

"Oh, aren't they funny!" She leaned above the shallow dish.

"Funny?" repeated the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Not when they get into the
wrong mouth!--a wry mouth, for instance, or an ugly mouth. A sweet tooth
should go, you understand, only with a sweet face."

"Is it a sweet tooth that makes a face sweet?" she inquired.

"Quite so." He held up the nose to examine it critically.

She watched him in silence for a while. Then, "You don't mind telling
me who's going to have that?" she ventured, pointing a finger at the
nose.

"This? Oh, this is for a certain little boy's father."

She blinked thoughtfully. "Is his name," she began--and stopped.

"His father--the unfortunate man--has been keeping his own nose to the
grindstone pretty steadily of late, and so--"

"I can't just remember the name I'm thinking about," said Gwendolyn,
troubled.

He glanced up. And the round, bright eyes were grave as he searched her
face. "I wonder," he said in a low voice, "if you know who _you_ are."

She smiled. "Well, I've been acquainted with myself for seven years,"
she declared.

"But do you know who you _are?_" (The round eyes were full of tears!)

She felt uncertain. "I did just a little while ago. Now, though--"

He reached to take her hand. "Shall I tell you?"

"Yes,"--in a whisper.

"You're the Poor Little Rich Girl." He patted her hand. "The Poor Little
Rich Girl!"

She nodded bravely, and stood looking up at him. He was old and unkempt.
Out at elbows, too. And the bottoms of his baggy trousers hung in dusty
shreds. But his lined and bearded face was kind! "I--I haven't been so
very happy," she said falteringly.

He shook his head. "Not happy! And no step-relations, either!"

"Well,--er," (she felt uncertain) "there are some step-houses just
across the street."

"Not the same thing," he declared shortly. "But, _hm! hm!_"--as he
coughed, he waved an arm cheerily. "Things will improve. Oh, yes. All
you've got to do is follow my advice."

The gray eyes were wistful, and questioning.

"You've got a lot to do," he went on. "Oh, a _great_ deal. For
instance"--here he paused, running his fingers through his long
hair--"there's Miss Royle, and Thomas, and Jane."

She was silent for a long moment. Miss Royle! Thomas! Jane! In the joy
of being out of doors, of having real dirt to scuff in, and high grass
through which to brush; of having a plaid gingham with a pocket, and
all the fizzing drink she wished; of being able to dabble and wade; and
of having good, squashy soda-mud for pies--in the joy at all this she
had utterly forgotten them!

She looked up at the tapered trees, and down at the flower-bordered
ground; then at the bill-board, and the loaded tables of that marvelous
establishment. There was still so much to see! And, oh, how many scores
of questions to ask!

He bent until his beard swept the sauce-box. "You'll just have to keep
out of their _clutches_," he declared.

Again she nodded, twisting and untwisting her fingers. "I thought maybe
they didn't come here."

"Come?" he grunted. "Won't they be hunting _you?_ Well, keep out of
their clutches, I say. That's absolutely necessary. You'll see why--if
you let 'em get you! For--how'll you ever find your father?"

"_Oh!_" A sudden flush swept her face. She looked at the ground. She had
forgotten Miss Royle and Thomas and Jane. Worse! Until that moment _she
had forgotten her father and mother!_

"There's that harness of his," went on the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He
thought a moment, pursing his lips and twiddling his thumbs. "We'll have
to consider how we can get rid of it."

She glanced up. "Where does he come?" she asked huskily; "my fath-er?"

"Um! Yes, where?" He seemed uneasy; scratched his jaw; and rearranged a
row of chins. "Well, the fact is, he comes here to--er--buy candles that
burn at both ends."

"Of course. Is it far?"

"Out in a new fashionable addition--yes, addition, subtraction,
multiplication."

"_You_ won't mind showing me the way?" Now her face grew pale with
earnestness.

He smiled sadly. "I? Your father thinks poorly of me. He's driven me off
the block once or twice, you know. Though"--he looked away
thoughtfully--"when you come to think of it there isn't such a lot of
difference between your father and me. He makes money: I make faces."

It was one of those unpleasant moments when there seemed very little to
be said. She stood on the other foot.

He began polishing once more. "Then there's that bee," he resumed--

"Moth-er."

He went on as quickly as possible. "Of course there are lots of things
worse than one of those so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sects--"

"She sees nothing else! She _hears_ nothing else!"

"Um! We'll help her get rid of it!--_if!_"

"If?"

"You've got a lot to overcome. Recollect the Policeman?"

She retreated a step.

"Just suppose we meet _him!_ And the Bear that--"

"My!"

"Yes. And a certain Doctor."

"Oh, _dear!_"

"Bad! Pretty bad!"

"Where does my moth-er come?"--timidly.

The question embarrassed. "Er--the place is full of carriage-lamps," he
began; "and--and side-lights, and search-lights, and--er--lanterns."

She looked concerned. "I can't guess."

"Just ordinary lanterns," he added. "You see, the Madam comes to--to
Robin Hood's Barn."

"Robin Hood's Barn!"

"Exactly. Nice day, _isn't_ it?"

By the expression on his face, Gwendolyn judged that Robin Hood's
Barn--of which she had often heard--was a most undesirable spot. "Is it
far?" she asked, swallowing.

"No. Only--we'll have to go around it."

Somehow, all at once, he seemed the one friend she had. She put out a
hand to him. "You _will_ go with me?" she begged. "Oh, I want to find my
fath-er, and my moth-er!"

"You want to tell 'em the real truth about those three servants they're
hiring. Unless I'm _much_ mistaken, your parents have never taken one
good square look at those three."

"Oh, let's start." Now, of a sudden, all the hopes and plans of the past
months came crowding back into her mind. "I want to sit at the grown-up
table," she declared. "And I want to live in the country, and go to
day-school."

He hung the hand-organ over a shoulder. "You can do every one of them,"
he said, "if we find your father and mother."

"We'll find them," she cried determinedly.

"We'll find 'em," he said, "if, as we go along, we don't leave
one--single--stone--_unturned_."

"Oh!" she glanced about her, searching the ground.

"Not _one_," he repeated. "And now--we'll start." He picked up two or
three small articles--an ear, a handful of hair, a plump cheek.

"But there's a stone right here," said Gwendolyn. It was a small one,
and lay at her feet, close to the table-leg.

He peered over. "All right! Turn it!"

She stooped--turned the rock--straightened.

The next moment a chill swept her; the next, she felt a heavy hand upon
her shoulder, and clumsy fingers busy with the buttons on the gingham
dress.

"_Tee! hee! hee! hee!_"

It was the voice that had called from a distance. Hearing it now she
felt a sudden, sickish, sinking feeling. She whirled.

A strange creature was kneeling behind her--a creature dressed in black
sateen, and like no human being that she had ever met before. For it
was _two-faced!_

One face (the front) was blowzy and freckled, with a small pug nose and
a quarrelsome mouth. The other (the face on what, with ordinary persons,
was the back of the head) was dark and forbidding, its nose a large
brick-colored pug, the mouth underneath shaped most extraordinarily--not
unlike a _barrette_, for it was wide and long, and square at the
corners, and full of shining tortoise-shell teeth! But the creature had
only one tongue. This was loose at both ends, so that there was one tip
for her front face, and one for the back. But she had only one pair of
eyes. These were reddish. They watched Gwendolyn boldly from the front;
then rolled quickly to the rear to stare at the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

At sight of the two-faced creature, Gwendolyn shrank away, frightened.

"Oh!--oh, my!" she faltered.

Both horrid mouths now bellowed hilariously. And the creature reached
out a big hand.

"Look here, Gwendolyn!" it ordered. "You ain't goin'!"

Gwendolyn lifted terrified eyes for a second look at the brick-colored
hair, the blowzy countenance. No possibility of doubt remained!

It was Jane!




CHAPTER IX


Bobbing and swaying foolishly, the nurse-maid shuffled to her feet. And
Gwendolyn, though she wanted to turn and flee beyond the reach of those
big, clutching hands, found herself rooted to the ground, and could only
stand and stare helplessly.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces stepped to her side hastily. His look was
perturbed. "My! My!" he exclaimed under his breath. "She's worse than I
thought!--_much_ worse."

With a little gasp of relief at having him so near, Gwendolyn slipped
her trembling fingers into his. "She's worse than _I_ thought," she
managed to whisper back.

Neither was given a chance to say more. For seeing them thus, hand in
hand, Jane suddenly started forward--with a great boisterous hop and
skip. Her front face was distorted with a jealous scowl. She gave
Gwendolyn a rough sidewise shove.

"Git away from that old beggar!" she commanded harshly. "Why, he'll
kidnap you! Look at his knife!"

Nimbly the little old gentleman thrust himself in front of her, barring
her way, and shielding Gwendolyn. "Who told you where she was?" he asked
angrily.

"Who?" mocked Jane, impudently. "Well, who is it that tells people
things?"

"You mean the _Bird?_"

Jane's front face broke into a pleased grin. "I mean the Bird," she
bragged And balanced from foot to foot.

Gwendolyn, peeking round at her, of a sudden felt a fresh concern. The
Bird!--the same Bird that had repeated tales against her father! And
now he was tattling on her! She saw all her hopes of finding her
parents, all her happy plans, in danger of being blighted.

"Oh, my goodness!" she said mournfully.

She was holding tight to the little old gentleman's coat-tails. Now he
leaned down. "We _must_ get rid of her," he declared. "You know what I
said. She'll make us trouble!"

"Here! None of that!" It was Jane once more, the grin replaced by a dark
look. "I'll have you know this child is in _my_ charge." Again she tried
to seize Gwendolyn.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces stood his ground resolutely--and swung the
curved knife up to check any advance.

"She doesn't need you," he declared "She's seven, and she's grown-up."
And to Gwendolyn, "_Tell_ her so! Don't be afraid! Tell her!"

Gwendolyn promptly opened her mouth. But try as she would, she could not
speak. Her lips seemed dry. Her tongue refused to move. She could only
swallow!

As if he understood her plight, the little old gentleman suddenly sprang
aside to where was the sauce-box, snatched something out of it, ran to
the other table and picked up an oblong leather case (a case exactly
like the gold-mounted one in which Miss Royle kept her spectacles), put
the something out of the sauce-box into the case, closed the case with a
snap, and put it, with a swift motion, into Gwendolyn's hand.

"There!" he cried triumphantly. "There's that stiff upper lip! _Now_
you can answer."

It was true! No sooner did she feel the leather case against her palm,
than her fear, and her hesitation and lack of words, were gone!

She assumed a determined attitude, and went up to Jane. "I don't need
you," she said firmly. "'Cause I'm seven years old now, and I'm grown
up. And--what are you here for _anyhow?_"

At the very boldness of it, Jane's manner completely changed. That front
countenance took on a silly simper. And she put her two-faced head, now
on one side, now on the other, ingratiatingly.

"What am I here for!" she repeated in an injured tone. "And you ask me
that, Miss? Why, what _should_ I be doin' for you, lovie, but dancin'
attendance."

At that, she began to act most curiously, stepping to the right and
pointing a toe, stepping to the left and pointing a toe; setting down
one heel, setting down the other; then taking a waltzing turn.

"Oh!" said Gwendolyn, understanding. (For dancing attendance was
precisely what Jane was doing!) After observing the other's antics for a
moment, she tossed her head. "Well, if _that's_ all you want to do," she
said unconcernedly, "why, _dance_."

"Yes, dance," broke in the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, snapping his fingers.
"Frolic and frisk and flounce!"

Jane obeyed. And waltzed up to the bill-board. "Say! what's the price of
that big braid?" she called--between her tortoise-shell teeth. She had
spied the red coronet, and was admiring its plaited beauty.

From under those long, square brows, the little old gentleman frowned
across the table at her. "I'll quote you no prices," he answered. "You
haven't paid me yet for your extra face."

Jane's reply was an impudent double-laugh. She was examining the
different things on the bill-board, and hopping sillily from foot to
foot.

Gwendolyn tugged gently at a coat-tail. "Can't we run now?" she asked;
"and hide?"

_Boom-er-oom-er-oom!_

"Sh!" warned the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, not stirring. "What was that!"

"I don't know."

Both held their breath. And Gwendolyn took a more firm hold of the
lip-case.

After a moment the little old gentleman began to speak very low: "We
shan't be able to steal away. She's watching us out of the back of her
head!"

"Yes. I can see 'em shine!"

"I believe that when she rolled her eyes from one face to the other it
made that _rumbley sound_."

"Scares me," whispered Gwendolyn.

"Ump!" he grunted. "Ought to cheer you up. For it's my opinion that her
eyes rumble _because her head's empty_."

"If it was hollow I think I'd know," she answered doubtfully. "You see
she's been my nurse a long time. But--would it help?"

"_Find out_," he advised. "And if it's a fact, your mother ought to
know."

_Boom-er-oom-er-oom!_

Gwendolyn, watching, saw two shining spots in Jane's back face grow
suddenly small--to the size of glinting pin-points; then disappear. The
nurse turned, and came dancing back.

"You'd better let me have that braid, old man," she cried rudely.

"I'll smooth down your saucy tongue," he threatened.

"Tee! hee! hee! hee!" she tittered. "Ha! ha! ha!"

Gwendolyn had heard her laugh before. But it was the first time she had
_seen_ her laugh. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, too. Now, at the same moment,
both witnessed an extraordinary thing: As Jane chuckled, she lifted one
stout arm so that a black sateen cuff was close to the mouth of the
front face. And holding it there, actually _laughed in her sleeve!_

Laughed in her sleeve--_and a great deal more!_ For with each chuckle,
from the top of her red head to her very feet, _she grew a trifle more
plump!_

The little old gentleman warned her with one long finger. "You look
out, young lady!" said he. "One of these days you'll laugh on the other
side of your face." (Which made Gwendolyn wish that it was not impolite
to correct those older than herself; for it was plain that he meant
"you'll laugh on your _other_ face.")

Jane put out a tongue-tip at him insolently. Then dancing near, "Come!"
she bade Gwendolyn. "Come away with Nurse."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces made no effort to interpose. But he wagged his
head significantly. "It's evident, Miss Jane," said he, "that you've
forgotten all about--the Piper."

She came short. And showed herself upset by what he had said, for she
did a hop-schottische.

He was not slow to take advantage. "We're sure to see him shortly," he
went on. "And when we do--! Because your account with him is adding up
_terrifically_. You're dancing a good deal, you know."

"How can I help _that?_" demanded Jane. "Ain't I dancin' atten--"

Gwendolyn forgot to listen to the remainder of the sentence. All at once
she was a little apprehensive on her own account--remembering how _she_
had danced beside the soda-water, not half an hour before!

"Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she began timidly, "do you mean the Piper
that everybody has to pay?"

"Exactly," replied the little old gentleman. "He's out collecting some
pay for me now--from a dishonest fellow who didn't settle for two dozen
ears that I boxed and sent him."

At that, Jane began tittering harder than ever (hysterically, this
time), holding up her arm as before--and filling out two or three
wrinkles in the black sateen! And Gwendolyn, watching closely, saw that
while the front face of her nurse was all a-grin, the face on the back
of her head wore a nervous expression. (Evidently that front face was
not always to be depended upon!)

The little old gentleman also remarked the nervous expression. And
followed up the advantage already won. "Now," said he, "perhaps you'll
be willing to come along quietly. We're just starting, you understand."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Gwendolyn glanced in the direction he pointed. And saw--for the first
time--that a wide, smooth road led away from the Face-Shop, a road as
wide and smooth and curving as the Drive. Like the Drive it was
well-lighted on either side (but lighted low-down) by a row of tiny
electric bulbs with frosted shades, each resembling an incandescent
toadstool. (She remembered having once caught a glimpse of something
similar in a store-window.) These tiny lamps were set close together on
short stems, precisely as white stones of a selected size edged all the
paths at Johnnie Blake's. And each gave out a soft light. She did not
have to ask about them. She guessed promptly what they were--lights to
make plain the way for people's feet: in short, nothing more nor less
than footlights!

A few times in her life--so few that she could tell them off on her pink
fingers--she had been taken to the theater, Jane accompanying her by
right of nurse-maid, Miss Royle by her superior right as judge of all
matters that partook of entertainment; Thomas coming also, though
apparently for no reason whatever, to grace a rear seat along with the
chauffeur. Seated in a box, close to the curved edge of the stage, she
had seen the soft glow of the footlights. But for some reason which she
could not fathom, the footlights had always been carefully concealed
from everyone but the people on the stage. Trying to imagine them
without any suggestions from Miss Royle or Jane, she had patterned them
after a certain stuffed slipper-cushion that stood on Jane's
dressing-table. How different was the reality, and how much more
satisfactory!

Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights. "You're just
startin'," she repeated. "Where?"

"To find her father and mother," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces,
stoutly.

At that Jane shook her huge pompadour. "Father and mother!" she cried.
"Indeed, you won't! Not while _I'm_ a-takin' care of her." And reaching
out, caught Gwendolyn--by a slender wrist.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other. And the next moment Gwendolyn
was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss
Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and
quarreled. For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her
away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might.

"Slap her hands! Slap her hands!" he shouted excitedly. "It'll start
circulation."

Both slapped--so hard that her hands stung. And with the result he
sought. For instantly all three began going in circles, around and
around, faster and faster and faster.

It was Jane who first let go. She was puffing hard, and the perspiration
was standing out upon her forehead. "I'm going to call the Policeman,"
she threatened shrilly.

"Oh! Oh! Please don't!" Gwendolyn's cry was as shrill. "I don't want him
to get me!"

"_Call_ the Policeman then," retorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And to
Gwendolyn, soothingly, "Hush! Hush, child!"

Jane danced away--sidewise, as if to keep watch as she went. "Help!
Help!" she shouted. "Police! Police!! _Poli-i-i-ice!!!_"

Gwendolyn was terribly frightened. But she could not run. One wrist was
still in the grasp of the little old gentleman. With wildly throbbing
heart she watched the road.

"Is he coming?" called the little old gentleman. He, too, was looking up
the curving road.

A whistle sounded. It was long-drawn, piercing.

And now Gwendolyn heard movements all about her in the forest--the soft
_pad, pad_ of running paws, the _hushing_ sound of wings--as if small
live things were fleeing before the sharp call.

Jane hastened back, galloping a polka. "Turn a stone! Turn a stone!" she
cried, rumbling her eyes.

Gwendolyn clung to the little old gentleman. "Oh, don't let her!" she
plead. "What if--"

"We _must_."

"Will a pebble-size do?" yelled Jane, excitedly.

"Yes! Yes!" answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "You've seen stones in
rings, haven't you? Aren't _they_ pebble-size?"

The nurse stooped, picked up a small stone, and sent it spinning from
the end of a thumb.

Faint with fear, Gwendolyn thrust a trembling hand into the patch-pocket
and took hold of the lip-case. Then leaning against the little old
gentleman, her yellow head half-concealed by the dusty flap of his torn
coat, she waited.




CHAPTER X


What she first saw was a face!--straight ahead, at the top of a steep
rise, where the wide road narrowed to a point. The face was a man's, and
upon it the footlights beat so strongly that each feature was
startlingly vivid. But it was not the fact that she saw _only_ a face
that set her knees to trembling weakly--nor the fact that the face was
fearfully distorted; but because it was _upside down!_

She stared, feeling herself grow cold, her flesh creep. "Oh, I want to
go home!" she gasped.

The face began to move nearer, slowly, inch by inch. And there sounded a
hoarse outcry: "_Hoo! hoo! Hoo! hoo!_"

It was the little old gentleman who reassured her somewhat--by his even
voice. "Ah!" said he with something of pride, yet as if to himself. "He
realizes that the black eye is a beauty. And I shouldn't wonder if he
isn't coming to match it!"

But what temporary confidence she gained, fled when Jane, tettering from
side to side, began to threaten in a most terrifying way. "_Now_, young
Miss!" she cried. "_Now_, you're goin' to be sorry you didn't mind Jane!
Oh, _I_ told you he'd git you some fine day!"

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces retorted--what, Gwendolyn did not hear. She was
sick with apprehension. "I guess I won't find my father and moth-er
now," she whispered miserably.

Then, all at once, she could see _more_ than a face! Silhouetted against
the lighted sky was a figure--broad shouldered and belted, with
swinging cudgel, and visored cap. It was like those dreaded figures that
patroled the Drive--yet how different! For as the Policeman came on, his
wild face peered between his coat-tails!--peered between his coat-tails
for the reason that he was _upside down_, and walking _on his hands!_

"_Hoo! hoo!_ Hoo! hoo!" he clamored again. His coat flopped about his
ears. His natural merino socks showed where his trousers fell away from
his shoes. His club bumped the side of his head at every stride of his
long blue-clad arms.

His identification was complete. For precisely as Thomas had declared,
he was _heels over head_.

"My!" breathed Gwendolyn, so astonished that she almost forgot to be
anxious for her own safety. (What a marvelous Land was this--where
everything was really as it ought to be!)

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces addressed her, smiling down. "You won't mind if
we don't start for a minute or two, will you?" he inquired. "This
Officer will probably want to discuss the prices of eyes. You see, I
gave him his black one. If he wants another, though, I shall be obliged
to ask the Piper to collect."

"Aren't--aren't you afraid of him?" stammered Gwendolyn, in a whisper.

"_Afraid?_" he echoed, surprised. "Why, no! Are _you?_"

Somehow, she felt ashamed. "N-n-not very," she faltered.

No sooner did she partly deny her fear than she experienced a most
delicious feeling of security! And this feeling grew as she watched the
nearing Policeman. For she saw that he was in a mournful state.

It was worry and grief that distorted his face. The dark eyes above the
visor (both the black eye and the other one) were streaming with tears,
tears which, naturally enough, ran from the four corners of his eyes,
down across his forehead, and on into his hair. And it was evident that
he had been weeping for a long time, for his cap was full!

And now she realized that the hoarse cries which had filled her with
terror were the saddest of complaints!--were not "Hoo! hoo!" but "_Boo!_
hoo!"

"Poor man!" sympathized the little old gentleman, wagging his beard.

Jane, however, with characteristic lack of compassion, hopped about,
_tee-heeing_ loudly--and straightening out any number of wrinkles. "Oh,
ain't he a sight!" she chortled. She had entirely given over her
threatening.

Gwendolyn now felt secure enough. But she did not feel like laughing.
She was sober to the point of pitying. For though he looked ridiculous,
he was so absolutely helpless, so utterly unhappy.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" he exclaimed as he came on--hand over hand, legs
held together, and swaying from side to side rhythmically, like the
pendulum of the metronome. "What shall I do! What shall I do!"

"Need any sharpening?" called out the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, brandishing
the curved knife. "Is there something wrong?"

"Wrong!" echoed the Policeman dolefully. "I should say so! Oh, _dear!_
Oh, dear!" And still weeping copiously, so that his forehead glistened
with his tears, he plodded across the border of the Face-Shop.

It was then that Gwendolyn recalled under what circumstances she had
seen him last. Only two or three days before, when bound homeward in the
limousine, she had spied him loitering beside the walled walk. "What
makes his club shine so?" she had asked Jane, whispering. "Eh?"
whispered Jane in return; "what else than _blood?_" The wind was blowing
as the automobile swept past him: The breeze lifted the tail of his
belted coat. And for one terrifying instant Gwendolyn caught a glimpse
of steel!

"And if he don't mean harm to anybody," Jane had added when Gwendolyn
turned scared eyes to her, "why does he carry a _pistol?_"

But there was no need to fear a weapon now. The falling away of his
coat-tails had uncovered his trouser-pockets. And as he halted,
Gwendolyn saw that his revolver was gone, his pistol-pocket empty.

She took a timid step toward him. "How do you do, Mr. Officer," she
said. "Can't you let your feet come down? Then you'd be on your back,
and you could get up the right way."

Up came his face between his coat-tails. He stared at her with his new
black eye--with the other one, too. (She noted that it was blue.) "But I
_am_ up the right way," he answered, "Oh, no! It isn't that! It isn't
that!" His hands were encased in white cotton gloves. He rocked himself
from one to the other.

"No, it _isn't_ that," agreed the little old gentleman; "but I firmly
believe that, you'd feel better if you'd order another eye."

"Another eye!" said the Policeman, bitterly. "Would another eye help me
to find him?"

"Oh, I see." The Man-Who-Makes-Faces spoke with some concern. "Then he's
flown?"

Gwendolyn, puzzled, glanced from one to the other. "Who is 'he'?" she
asked.

The Policeman bumped his head against his night-stick. "The Bird!" he
mourned.

At that, Jane hopped up and down in evident delight.

But Gwendolyn fell back, taking up a position beside the little old
gentleman. That Bird again! And it was evident that the Policeman
thought well of him!

Pity swiftly merged into suspicion.

"I s'pose you mean the Bird that tells people things," she ventured--to
be sure that she was not misjudging him.

He wiped his black eye on a coat-tail. "Aye," he answered. "That's the
one. And, oh, but he could tell _you_ things!"

Gwendolyn considered the statement. At last, "He's a tattletale!" she
charged, and felt her cheeks crimson with sudden anger.

He nodded--so vigorously that some of his tears splashed over the rim of
his cap. "That's why the Police can't get along without him," he
declared. "And, oh, here I've gone and lost him! And They'll put me off
the Force!" (Bump! bump! bump!)

"They?" she questioned. "Do you mean the soda-water They?"

"And They know so much," explained the little old gentleman, "because
the Bird tells 'em."

"He tells 'em everything," grumbled the Officer. "They send him around
the whole country hunting gossip--when he ought to be working
exclusively in the interest of Law and Order."

Law and Order--Gwendolyn wondered who these two were.

"He knows everything _I_ do," asserted the Policeman, "and everything
_she_ does--" Here he jerked his head sidewise at Jane.

She retreated, an expression of guilt on that front face.

"And everything _you_ do," he went on, indicating Gwendolyn.

"I know that," she said in an injured tone. "He told Jane I was here."

At that, the Policeman gave himself a quick half-turn. "You've _seen_
him?" he demanded of the nurse.

She shifted from side to side nervously. "It ain't the same one," she
protested. "It--"

He interrupted. "You couldn't be mistaken," he declared. "Did he have a
bumpy forehead? and a lumpy tail?"

"You don't mean _a lump of salt_," said Gwendolyn, astonished.

"He does," said the little old gentleman. "And the bumpy forehead is
from having to remember so many things."

She heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, I think I'd like _that_ Bird," she
said. "And I don't believe he's far. 'Cause when you whistled I heard
flying."

"_Running_ and flying," corrected the Policeman; "--running and flying
to _me_." (He said it proudly.) "The squirrels and the robin-redbreasts,
and the sparrows, all follow me here from the Park of a night, knowing I
protect 'em."

"Oh?" murmured Gwendolyn. "You protect 'em?" She looked sidewise at
Jane, reflecting that the nurse had given him quite another character.

"Yes; and I protect old, old people."

"Huh!" snorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "You protect old people, eh?
Well, how about old _organ-grinders?_"

"You ought to know," answered the Officer promptly. "I guess you didn't
give me that black eye for nothing."

Whereat the little old gentleman suddenly subsided into silence.

"Yes, I protect old people," reiterated the other, "and the blind, of
course, and the trees and the flowers and the fountains. Also, the
statues. There's the General, for instance. If I didn't watch out, folks
would scribble on him with chalk."

Gwendolyn assented. Once more she was beginning to have belief in him.

"Then," he resumed, "I look after the children, so that--"

She started. The children!--_he?_ "But," she interrupted, "Jane's
always told me that you grab little boys and girls _and carry 'em off_."
Then, fairly shook at her own boldness.

"I never!" denied Jane, sullenly.

He laughed. "I _do_ carry 'em off. But _where?_"

"I don't know,"--in a flutter.

"Tell her," urged the little old gentleman.

The Policeman leaned his feet against the bill-board. "I'm the man,"
said he, "that takes lost little kids to their fathers and mothers."

To their fathers and mothers! Gwendolyn came round upon Jane, lifting
accusing eyes, pointing an accusing finger, "So!" she breathed. "You
told me he stole 'em! It isn't _true!_" And she wiggled the finger.

Jane edged away, head on one side "Oh, I was jokin' you," she declared
lightly. But--accidentally--- she turned aside her grinning front face
and gave the others a glimpse of the back one. And each noted how the
square mouth was trembling with anxiety.

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed Gwendolyn, triumphantly. "I'm finding you out!"

The Policeman crossed his feet against the bill-board, taking care not
to injure any of the articles there displayed. "Yes, I've taken a lot of
lost little kids to their fathers and mothers," he repeated. "And I was
just wondering if you--"

She gave him no chance to finish his sentence. In her joy at finding
that here was another friend, she ran to him and leaned to smile into
his face.

"You'll help _me_ to find my fath-er and moth-er, won't you?" she cried.

"_Cer_-tainly!"

"We were starting just as you came," said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

"Well, let's be off!" His whistle hung by a thin chain from a
button-hole of his coat. He swung it to his lips, _Toot! Toot!_ It was a
cheery blast.

The next moment, coming, as it were, on the heels of her sudden good
fortune, Gwendolyn closed her right hand and found herself possessed of
a bag of candy!--red-and-white stick-candy of the variety that she had
often seen selling at street corners (out of show-cases that went on
wheels). More than once she had longed, and in vain, to stop at one of
these show-cases and purchase. Now she suddenly remembered having done
so with a high hand. The sticks were striped spirally. Boldly she
produced one and fell to sucking it, making more noise with her sucking
than ever the strict proprieties of the nursery permitted.

Then, candy in hand, and with the little old gentleman on her right, the
Policeman on her left, and Jane trailing behind, doing a
one-two-three-and-point, she set forward gayly along the wide, curving
road.




CHAPTER XI


As she trotted along, pulling with great relish at a candy-stick, she
glanced down at the Policeman every now and then--and glowed with pride.
On some few well-remembered occasions her chauffeur had condescended to
hold a short conversation with her; had even permitted her to sound the
clarion of the limousine, with its bright, piercing tones. All of which
had been keenly gratifying. But here she was, actually conversing with
an Officer in full uniform! And on terms of perfect equality!

She proffered him the bag of spiral sweets.

He cocked his head side wise at it. "Is that the chewing kind?" he
inquired.

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

However, he did not seem in the least disappointed. For he had a
mouthful of gum, and this he cracked loudly from time to time--in a way
that excited her admiration and envy.

"I've watched you go by our house lots of times," she confided
presently, eager to say something cordial.

"Oh?" said he. "It's a beat that does well enough in summer. But in the
wintertime I'd rather be Down-Town." Puffing a little,--for though he
was upside down and walking on his hands, he had so far made good
progress--he halted and rested his feet against the lowest limb of a
tree that stood close to the road. Now his cap touched the ground, and
his hands were free. With one white-gloved finger he drew three short
lines in the packed dirt.

"And you _ought_ to be Down-Town," declared the little old gentleman,
halting too. "Because you're a Policeman with a level head."

A level head? Gwendolyn stooped to look. And saw that it was indeed a
fact!

"If I hadn't one," answered the Policeman with dignity, "would I be able
to stand up comfortably in this remarkable manner?"

"Oh, tee! hee! hee! hee!"

It was the nurse, her sleeve lifted, her blowzy face convulsed. As she
laughed, Gwendolyn saw wrinkle after wrinkle in the black sateen taken
up--with truly alarming rapidity.

"My!" she exclaimed. "Jane's always been stout. But now--!"

The Policeman was deepening the three short lines in the dirt, making a
capital A. "Two streets come together," he said, placing his finger on
the point of the letter. "And the block that connects 'em just before
they meet, that's the beat for _me_."

"I hope you'll get it," she said heartily.

"Get it!" he repeated bitterly. "Well, I certainly won't if I don't find
that Bird!" And he started forward once more.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, trudging alongside, craned to peer ahead, his
grizzled beard sticking straight out in front of him. "Now, let me see,"
he mused in a puzzled way. "Which route, I wonder, had we better take?"

"That depends on where we're going," replied the Policeman, helplessly.
"And with the Bird gone, of course I don't know."

"I'll tell you," said the little old gentleman promptly. "First, we
must cross the Glass--"

Gwendolyn gave him a quick glance. Surely he meant cross the _grass_.

"Yes, the Glass; go on," encouraged the Officer.

"--And find _him_." Those round dark eyes darted a quick glance at
Gwendolyn.

Jane, capering at his heels, now interrupted. "Find him!" she taunted.
"Gwendolyn'll never find her father if she don't listen to me."

He ignored her. "Next," he went on "we'll steer straight for Robin
Hood's Barn."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Policeman "Then we have to go around."

"_Every_body has to go around."

Once more Jane broke in. "Gwendolyn," she called, "you'll never find
your mother. This precious pair is takin' you the wrong way!"

Gwendolyn paid no heed. Ahead the road divided--to the left in a narrow
bridle-path, all loose soil and hoof-prints, and sharp turns; to the
right in a level thoroughfare that held a straight course. She touched
the little old gentleman's elbow. "Which?" she whispered.

As the parting of the ways was reached, he pointed. And she saw a
sign--a sign with an arrow directing travelers to the right. Under the
arrow, plainly lettered, were the words:

    _To the Bear's Den_.

Gwendolyn looked her concern. "Do we _have_ to go that road?" she asked
him.

He nodded.

The next moment, with a loud rumbling of the eyes, Jane came alongside.
"Oh, dearie," she cried, "you couldn't hire _me_ to go. And I wouldn't
like to see _you_ go. I think too much of you, I do _indeed_."

"Hold your tongue!" ordered the little old gentleman, crossly.

Jane obeyed. Up came a hand, and she seized the tongue-tip in her front
mouth. But since there was a second tongue-tip in that back face, she
still continued her babbling: "Don't ask me to trapse over the hard
pavements on my poor tired feet, dearie, just because you take your
notions.... Come, I say! Your mother's nobody, anyhow.... You don't know
what you're sayin' or doin', poor thing! You're just wanderin', that's
all--just wanderin'."

"I'm wandering in the right direction, anyhow," retorted Gwendolyn,
stoutly. And to the little old gentleman, "I'm sorry we're going this
way, though. I'm 'fraid of Bears,"--for the sign was past now; the four
were on the level thoroughfare.

The Policeman seemed not to have remarked her anxiety. "And after the
Den, what do we pass?" he questioned.

"The Big Rock," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

"Do we have to turn it?" The other spoke with some annoyance. "What's
likely to come out? I suppose it won't be hiding that Bird."

"There's a hollow under the Rock," said the little old gentleman. "We'll
find _something_." His face grew grave.

"And--and after we go by the Big Rock?" ventured Gwendolyn.

The little old gentleman smiled. "Ah, then!" he said, "--then we come to
the Pillery!"

"Oh!" She considered the reply. Pillery--it was a word she had never
chanced upon in the large Dictionary. Yet she felt she could hardly ask
any questions about it. She had asked so many already. "It's kind of you
to answer and answer and answer," she said aloud. "Nobody else ever did
that."

"Ask anything you want to know," he returned cordially. "I'll always
give you prompt attention. Though of course, there are _some_ things--"
He hesitated.

"Yes?"--eagerly.

"That only fathers and mothers can answer."

"Oh!"

"Didn't you know that?" demanded the Policeman, surprised.

"Tee! hee! hee! hee!" snickered Jane. Though she was some few steps in
the rear, her difficult breathing could be plainly heard. She had
laughed so much into her sleeve, and had grown so stout, that by now not
a single wrinkle remained in the black sateen; _worse_--she was
beginning to try every square inch of the cloth sorely. And having
danced every foot of the way, she was tiring.

"Oh, fath-er-and-moth-er questions," said Gwendolyn.

"Precisely," answered the little old gentleman; "--about my friends,
Santa Claus and the Sand-Man, for instance--"

"They're not friends of Potter's, I guess. 'Cause he--"

"--And the fairies, and the gnomes, and the giants; and Mother Goose and
_her_ crowd. Of course a nurse or a governess or a teacher of some sort
might _try_ to explain. Wouldn't do any good, though. You wouldn't
understand."

The Policeman swung his head back and forth, nodding. "That's the
worst," said he, "of being a Poor--" Here he fell suddenly silent, and
spatted the dust with his palms in an embarrassed way.

She understood. "A Poor Little Rich Girl," she said, "who doesn't see
her fath-er and moth-er."

"But you will," he declared determinedly, and forged ahead faster than
ever, white hand following white hand.

It was then that Gwendolyn heard the nurse muttering and chortling to
herself. "Well, I never!" exclaimed the tongue-tip that was not being
held. "If this ain't a' _automobile_ road! Why, it's a _fine_
auto_mo_bile road! Ha! ha! ha! _That makes a difference!_"

Gwendolyn was startled. What did Jane mean? _What_ difference? Why so
much satisfaction all at once? She wished the others would listen; would
take note of the triumphant air. But both were busy, the little old
gentleman chattering and pointing ahead, the Policeman straining to keep
pace and look where his companion directed.

To lessen her uneasiness, Gwendolyn hunted a second stick of candy. Then
sidled in between her two friends. "Oh, please," she began appealingly,
with a glance up and a glance down, "I'm 'fraid Jane's going to make us
trouble. Can't we think of some way to get rid of her?"

The Policeman twisted his neck around until he could wink at her with
his black eye. "In town," said he meaningly, "we Policemen have a way."

"Oh, tell us!" she begged. For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces looked keenly
interested.

"Well," resumed the Officer--and now he halted just long enough to raise
a gloved finger to one side of his head with a significant
gesture--"when we want to get rid of a person, we put a flea in his
ear."

Gwendolyn blushed rosy. A flea! It was an insect that Miss Royle had
never permitted her to mention. Still--

"But--but where could we--er--find--a--a--?"

She had stammered that far when she saw the little old gentleman turn
his wrinkled face over a shoulder. Next, he jerked an excited thumb. And
looking, she saw that Jane was _failing to keep up_.

By now the nurse had swelled to astonishing proportions. Her body was as
round as a barrel. Her face was round too, and more red than ever. Her
cheeks were so puffed, the skin of her forehead was so tight and shiny,
that she looked precisely like a monster copy of a sanitary rubber doll!

"She can't last much longer! Her strength's giving out." It was the
Policeman. And his voice ended in a sob. (Yet the sob meant nothing, for
he was showing all his white teeth in a delighted smile.)

"She must have help!"--this the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. His voice broke,
too. But his round, dark eyes were brimming with laughter.

"Who'll help her?" demanded Gwendolyn. "_Nobody_. So _one_ of that three
is gone for good!"

She halted now--on the summit of a rise. Up this, but at a considerable
distance, Jane was toiling, with feeble hops to the right, and
staggering steps to the left, and faint, fat gasps.

"Oh, Gwendolyn darlin'!" she called weepingly. "Oh, don't leave your
Jane! Oh! Oh!"

"I've made up my mind," announced Gwendolyn, "to have the nurse-maid in
the brick house. So, good-by--good-by."

She began to descend rapidly, with the little old gentleman in a
shuffling run, and the Policeman springing from hand to hand as if he
feared pursuit, and swaying his legs from side to side with a
_tick-tock, tick-tock_. The going was easy. Soon the bottom of the slope
was reached. Then all stopped to look back.

Jane had just gained the top. But was come to a standstill. Over the
brow of the hill could be seen only her full face--like a big red moon.

At the sight, Gwendolyn felt a thrill of joy--the joy of freedom found
again. "Why, she's not coming up," she called out delightedly. "She's
going down!" And she punctuated her words with a gay skip.

That skip proved unfortunate. For as ill-luck would have it, she
stumbled. And stumbling stubbed her toe. The toe struck two small stones
that lay partly embedded in the road--dislodged them--turned them end
for end--and sent them skimming along the ground.

"_Two!_" cried the Policeman. "_Now_ who?"

"If only the right kind come!" added the little old gentleman, each of
his round eyes rimmed with sudden white.

"I'll blow my whistle." Up swung the shining bit of metal on the end of
its chain.

"Blow it at the top of your lungs!"

The Policeman had balanced himself on his head, thrown away his gum, and
put the whistle against his lips. Now he raised it and placed it against
his chest, just above his collar-button. Then he blew. And through the
forest the blast rang and echoed and boomed--until all the tapers rose
and fell, and all the footlights flickered.

Instantly that red moon sank below the crest of the hill. Puffs of smoke
rose in its place. Then there was borne to the waiting trio a sound of
_chugging_. And the next instant, with a purr of its engine, and a whirr
of its wheels, here into full sight shot forward the limousine!

Gwendolyn paled. The half-devoured stick of candy slipped from her
fingers. "Oh, I don't want to be shut up in the car!" she cried out.
"And I won't! I _won't!_ I WON'T!" She scurried behind the
Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

The automobile came on. Its polished sides reflected the varied lights
of the forest. Its hated windows glistened. One door swung wide, as if
yawning for a victim!

The little old gentleman, as he watched it, seemed interested rather
than apprehensive. After a moment, "Recollect my speaking of the Piper?"
he asked.

"Y-y-yes."

At the mention of the Piper, the Policeman stared up. "The Pip-Piper!"
he protested, stammering, and beginning to back away.

At that, Gwendolyn felt renewed anxiety. "The Piper!" she faltered. "Oh,
I'll have to settle with him." And thrust a searching hand into the
patch-pocket.

The Policeman kept on retreating. "I don't want to see him," he
declared. "He made me pay too dear for my whistle." And he bumped his
head against his night-stick.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces hastened to him, and halted him by grasping him
about his fast-swaying legs. "You can't run away from the Piper," he
reminded. "So--"

Gwendolyn was no longer frightened. In her search for money she had
found the gold-mounted leather case. This she now clutched, receiving
courage from the stiff upper-lip.

But the Policeman was far from sanguine. Now perspiration and not tears
glistened on his forehead. He grasped his club with one shaking hand.

As for the little old gentleman, he held the curved knife out in front
of him, all his thin fingers wound tightly around its hilt. "What's the
Piper got beside him?" he asked in a tone full of wonder. "Is it a
_rubber-plant?_"

Gwendolyn looked. The Piper was leaning over the steering-wheel of the
car. He was so near by now that she could make him out clearly--a lanky,
lean-jawed young man in a greasy cap and Johnnie Blake overalls. Over
his right shoulder, on a strap, was suspended a bundle. A tobacco-pipe
hung from a corner of his mouth. But it was evidently not this pipe that
had given him his title; but pipes of a different kind--all of lead, in
varying lengths. These were arranged about his waist, somewhat like a
long, uneven fringe. And among them was a pipe-wrench, a coupling or
two, and a cutter.

Beside him on the seat, in the foot man's place, was a queer object. It
was tall, and dark-blue in color. (Or was it green?) On one side of it
were what seemed to be seven long leaves. On the other side were seven
similar leaves. And as the car rolled swiftly up, these fourteen long
leaf-like projections waved gently.

She had no chance to examine the object further. Something else claimed
her attention. The windowed door of the limousine suddenly swung wide,
and through it, toward her, was extended a long black beckoning arm.
Next, a freckled face filled the whole of the opening, spying this way
and that. It was Jane!

"Come, dearie," she cooed. (She had let go the front tongue-tip.) "I
wouldn't stay with them two any more. Here's your beautiful car, love.
_This_ is what'll take you fast to your papa and mamma."

"_No!_" cried Gwendolyn. And to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, "She was
'fraid of the Piper just a little while ago. Now, she's riding around
with him. _I_ think he's--"

"Ssh!" warned the little old gentleman, speaking low. "We have to have
him. And he has his good points."

The Piper was staring at Gwendolyn impertinently. Now he climbed down
from his seat, all his pipes _tinkling_ and _tankling_ as he moved, and
gave her a mocking salute, quite as if he knew her--yet without removing
the tobacco-pipe from between his lips, or the greasy cap from his hair.

"Well, if here ain't the P.L.R.G.," he exclaimed rudely.

As she got a better view of him she remembered that she _had_ met him
before--in her nursery, that fortunate morning the hot-water pipe
burst. He was the very Piper that had been called in to make plumbing
repairs!

"Good-evening," said Gwendolyn, nodding courteously--but staying close
to the little old gentleman. For Jane had summoned strength enough to
topple out of the limousine and teeter forward. Now she was kneeling in
the road, crooking a coaxing finger, and gurgling invitingly.

The Piper scowled at the nurse. "Say! What do you think you're doin'?"
he demanded. "Singin' a duet with yourself?" Then turning upon the
Policeman, "Off your beat, ain't you?" he inquired impudently; when,
without waiting for an answer, he swung round upon the
Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Old gent," he began tauntingly, "I can't collect
real money for that dozen ears." And threw out an arm toward the object
on the driver's seat.

Gwendolyn looked a second time. And saw a horrid and unnatural sight.
For the object was a man, straight enough, broad-shouldered enough, with
arms and legs, feet and hands, and a small head; but a man shockingly
disfigured. For down either side of him, projecting from head and
shoulders and arms, were ears--long, hairy, mulish ears, that wriggled
horribly, one moment unfolding themselves to catch every sound, the next
flopping about ridiculously.

"Why, he's all ears!" she gasped.

The little old gentleman started forward. "It's that dozen I boxed!" he
announced. "Hey! Come out of there!"

Gwendolyn's heart sank. Now she knew. From the first her fear had been
that one of the dreaded three would come and fetch her out of the Land
before she could find her parents. And here, at the very moment when she
hoped to leave the worst of the trio behind, here was another!--to
hamper and tattle and thwart.

For the rubber plant was Thomas!

And now all at once there was the greatest excitement. The
Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized Thomas by an ear and dragged him to the
ground, all the while upbraiding him loudly. And while these two were
occupied, the Piper swaggered toward the Policeman, his pipes and
implements striking and jangling together.

"I want my money," he bellowed.

"I don't owe you anything!" retorted the Policeman.

All this gave Jane the opportunity she wished. She advanced upon
Gwendolyn. "Come, sweetie," she wheedled. "Rich little girls don't hike
along the streets like common poor little girls. So jump in, and
pretend you're a Queen, and have a grand ride--"

Now all of a sudden a terrible inclination to obey seized Gwendolyn.
There yawned that door--here burned those reddish eyes, compelling her
forward into a dreaded grasp--

She screamed, covering her face.

In that moment of danger it was the Policeman who came to her rescue.
Eluding the Piper, he ran, hand over hand, to the side of the car,
balanced himself on his level head, and waved his club.

"Move on!" he ordered in a deep voice (precisely as Gwendolyn had heard
officers order at crowded crossings); "move on, there!"

The limousine obeyed! With no one touching the steering-gear, the engine
began to _chug_, the wheels to whirr. And purring again, like some
great good-natured live thing, it gained momentum, took the road in a
cloud of pink dust, and, rounding a distant turn, disappeared from
sight.




CHAPTER XII


It occurred to Gwendolyn that it would be a very good idea to stop
turning stones. The first one set bottom-side up had resulted in the
arrival of Jane. And whereas the Policeman had appeared when the second
was dislodged, here, following the accidental stub of a toe, were these
two--the Piper and Thomas.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces hurried across to her, his expression dubious.
"Bitter pill!" he exclaimed, with a sidewise jerk of the ragged hat.
"Gall and wormwood!"

"Oh, yes!" For--sure enough!--there _was_ an ill-flavored taste on her
lips--a taste that made her regret having lost the candy.

Next, the Policeman came _tick-tocking_ up. "The scheme was to kidnap
you," he declared wrathfully.

"And keep me from finding my fath-er and moth-er," added Gwendolyn. Now
she understood why Jane was so pleased with the choice of the automobile
road! And she realized that all along there was never any danger of her
being kidnaped by _strangers_, but by the two who, their past
ill-feeling evidently forgotten, were at this very moment chuckling and
chattering together, ugly heads touching--the eary head and the head
with the double face!

Seeing the Policeman and the little old gentleman in conversation with
Gwendolyn, the Piper slouched over. "Look a-here!" he began roughly,
addressing all three; "you're goin' to make a great big mistake if you
antagonize a man that belongs to a Labor Union." (Just so had he spoken
the day he fixed the broken hot-water pipe.)

"Bosh!" cried the Policeman. "What do we care about _him!_ Why, he'll
never even get through the Gate!"

Gwendolyn was puzzled. _What_ Gate? And _why_ would Thomas not get
through it? Then looking round to where he was conspiring with Jane, she
saw what she believed was a very good explanation: He would never even
get through the Gate because (a simple reason!) the _nurse_ would not be
able to get through.

For by now Jane was not only as _round_ as a barrel, but she was fully
as _large_--what with so much happy giggling over Thomas's arrival.
Moreover, having toppled sidewise, she _looked_ like a barrel--a barrel
upholstered in black sateen, with a neat touch of white at collar and
cuffs!

"He's been in trouble before," continued the Policeman, stormily. "But
_this_ time--!" And letting himself down flat upon his head, he shook
both neatly shod feet in the Piper's face.

It was now that Gwendolyn chanced, for the first time, to examine the
latter's bundle. And was surprised to discover that it was nothing less
than a large _poke-bonnet_--of the fluffy, lacy, ribbony sort. And she
was admiring it, for it was of black silk, and handsome, _when something
within it stirred!_

She retreated--until the night-stick and the kidnaper knife were between
her and the poke. "Hadn't we better be st-starting?" she faltered
nervously.

The Piper marked her manner, and showed instant resentment of it. "This
here thing was handed me once in part-payment," he explained. "And I
ain't been able to get rid of it since. Every single day it's harder to
lug around. Because, you see, he's growin'."

At that, the Policeman and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces exchanged a glance
full of significance. And both shrugged--the Policeman with such an
emphatic upside-down shrug that his shoulders brushed the ground.

Gwendolyn's curiosity emboldened her. "_He?_" she questioned.

"The pig."

_The pig!_ Gwendolyn's pink mouth opened in amazement. Here was the very
pig that she heard _belonged_ in a poke!

The Piper was glowering at Jane, who was rocking gently from side to
side, displaying first one face, then the other. "Well, _I_ call that
dancing," he declared. And pulling out a small, well-thumbed
account-book, jotted down some figures.

Gwendolyn tried to think of something to say--while feeling mistrust
toward the Piper, and abhorrence toward the poke and its contents. At
last she took refuge in polite inquiry. "When did you come out from
town?" she asked.

The Piper grunted rather ill-humoredly (or was it the pig?--she could
not be certain), and colored up a little. "I didn't _come_ out," he
answered in his surly fashion. Whereupon he fell to fitting a coupling
upon the ends of two pipes.

"No?"--inquisitively.

"I--er--got run out."

"Oh!"

Again the Policeman and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces exchanged a significant
glance.

"You see," went on the Piper, "in the City everybody's in debt. Well, I
have to have my money, don't I? So I dunned 'em all good. But
maybe--er--a speck _too_ much. So--"

"Oh, dear!" breathed Gwendolyn

"Of course, I've never been what you might call popular. Who _would_
be--if everybody owed him money."

"Huh!" snorted the Policeman.

"You overcharge," asserted the little old gentleman.

Gwendolyn hastened to forestall any heated reply from the Piper. "You
don't think your pig had anything to do with it?" she suggested
considerately. "'Cause do--do _nice_ people like pigs?"

"The pig was never in sight," asserted the Piper. "Guess that's one
reason why I can't sell him. What people don't see they don't want to
buy--even when it's covered up stylish." (Here he regarded the poke
with an expression of entire satisfaction.)

The little company was well on its way by now--though Gwendolyn could
not recall the moment of starting. The Piper had not waited to be
invited, but strolled along with the others, his birch-stemmed
tobacco-pipe in a corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, and the
pig-poke a-swing at his elbow.

Thomas, left to get Jane along as best he could, had managed most
ingeniously. The nurse was cylindrical. All he had to do, therefore, was
to give her momentum over the smooth windings of the road by an
occasional smart shove with both hands.

Which made it clear that the likelihood of losing Jane, of leaving her
behind, was lessening with each moment! For now the more the nurse
laughed _the easier it would be to get her along_.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Gwendolyn, with a sad shake of her yellow head as
Jane came trundling up, both fat arms folded to keep them out of the
way.

"If she stopped dancin' where would I come in?" demanded the Piper,
resentfully. The pig moved in the poke. He trounced the poor thing
irritably.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces now began to speak--in a curious, chanting
fashion. "The mode of locomotion adapted by this woman," said he,
"rather adds to, then detracts from, her value as a nurse. Think what
facilities she has for amusing a child!--on, say, an extensive slope of
lawn. And her ability to, see two ways--practically at once--gives her
further value. Would _she_ ever let a young charge fall over a cliff?"

The barrel was whopping over and over--noiselessly, except for the
faint chatter of Jane's tortoise-shell teeth. Behind it was Thomas,
limp-eared by now, and perspiring, but faithful to his task.

"The _best_ thing," whispered Gwendolyn, reaching to touch a ragged
sleeve, "would be to get rid of Thomas. Then she--"

The Policeman heard. "Get rid of Thomas?" he repeated. "Easy enough.
_Look on the ground_."

She looked.

"See the h's?"

Sure enough, the road was fairly strewn with the sixth consonant!--both
in small letters and capitals.

"Been dropped," went on the Officer.

She had heard the expression "dropping his h's." Now she understood it.
"Oh, but how'll these help?"

"Show 'em to Thomas!"

She approached the barrel--and pointed down.

Thomas followed her pointing. Instantly his expression became furious.
And one by one his ears stood up alertly. "It's him!" he shouted. "Oh,
wait till I get my hands on him!" Then heaving hard at the barrel, he
raced off along the alphabetical trail.

Gwendolyn was compelled to run to keep up with him. "What's the
trouble?" she asked the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

"A Dictionarial difference," he answered, his dark-skinned face very
grave.

"Oh!" (She resolved to hunt Dictionarial up the moment she was back in
the school-room.)

Thomas was shouting once more from where he labored in the lead. "I'll
murder him!" he threatened. "This time I'll mur-r-der him!"

Murder? That made matters clear! There was only one person against whom
Thomas bore such hot ill-will. "It's the King's English," she panted.

"It's the King's English," agreed the Policeman, _tick-tocking_ in rapid
_tempo_.

She reached again to tug gently at a ragged sleeve. "Do _you_ know him?"
she asked.

The round black eyes of the little old gentleman shone proudly down at
her. "All nice people are well acquainted with the King's English," he
declared--which statement she had often heard in the nursery. Now,
however, it embarrassed her, for she was compelled to admit to herself
that _she_ was not acquainted with the King's English--and he a
personage of such consequence!

The Piper hurried alongside, all his pipes rattling. "Just where are we
goin', anyhow?" he asked petulantly.

"We're going to the Bear's Den," informed the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

"And here's the Zoo now," announced the Policeman.

It was unmistakably the Zoo. Gwendolyn recognized the main entrance. For
above it, in monster letters formed by electric lights, was a sign,
bulbous and blinding--

    _Villa Sites Borax Starch Shirts._

"So _this_ is the Gate you meant!" she called to the Policeman.

The Gate was flung invitingly wide Thomas rushed toward it, his fourteen
ears flopping horribly.

"And here _he_ is!" cried the Policeman. "On guard."

The next moment--"'Alt!" ordered a harsh voice--a voice with an English
accent.

There was a flash of scarlet before Gwendolyn's face--of scarlet so
vivid that it blinded. She flung up a hand. But she was not frightened.
She knew what it was. And rubbed at her eyes hastily to clear them.

He stood in full view.

As far as outward appearance was concerned, he was exactly the looking
person she had pictured in her own mind--young and tall and lusty, with
a florid countenance and hair as blonde as her own. And he wore the
uniform of an English soldier--short coat of scarlet, all gold braid and
brass buttons; dark trousers with stripes; and a little round cap with a
chin strap.

But he carried no cane. Instead, as he stepped forward, nose up, chin
up, eyes very bold, he swung a most amazing weapon. It was as scarlet as
his own coat, as long as he was tall, and polished to a high degree. But
it was not unbending, like a sword: It was limber to whippiness, so that
as he twirled it about his blonde head it snapped and whistled. And
Gwendolyn remembered having seen others exactly like it hanging on the
bill-board at the Face-Shop. For it was a tongue!

"Aw! Mah word!" exclaimed the King's English, surveying the halted
group.

Gwendolyn could not imagine what word he had in mind, but she thought
him very fine. With his air of proud self-assurance, and his fine
brilliant uniform, he was strikingly like her own red-coated toy!
Anxious to make a favorable impression upon him, she smoothed the
gingham dress hastily, brushed back straying wisps of yellow,
straightened her shoulders, and assumed a cordial expression of
countenance.

"How do you do," she said, curtseying.

He saluted. But blocked the way.

"May we go into the Zoo, please?"

His hand jerked down to his side. "One at a time," he answered; "--all
but Thomas."

Thomas had come short with the others. Now as Gwendolyn looked at him
she saw that he, also, was armed with a tongue--a warped and twisted
affair, rough, but thin along its edges.

"If you try to keep me out," he cried, "I certainly _will_ murder you!"

At this juncture the Policeman pit-patted forward and took his station
at the left of the Gate. Next, the King's English stepped back until he
stood at the right. Between them, hand in hand once more, passed
Gwendolyn and the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

The Piper came next. "Call that a' English tongue?" he asked, with an
impudent grin at the soldier's shining weapon.

"Yes, sir."

"Pah!"

Now Thomas gave Jane a quick shove forward--but a shove which sent her
only as far as the Gate.

The King's English stared down at her. "How are you?" he said coldly.

"I'm awful uncomfortable," was the mournful answer.

"Then take off your stays," he advised. Whereat the polished tongue
glanced through the light, caught Jane fairly around the waist, and
with a swift recoil brought her to her feet!

And now Gwendolyn, astonished, saw that too much laughter had again
remolded that sateen bulk. The nurse had grown woefully heavy about the
shoulders--which put a fearful strain on the stitches of her bodice! and
gave her the appearance of a gigantic humming-top! As she swayed a
moment on her wide-toed shoes--shoes now utterly lacking buttons--the
King's English again struck out, caught her, this time, around the neck,
and sent her spinning through the Gate!

"_Zing-g-g-g!_" she laughed dizzily--that laugh the high, persistent
note of a top!

Thomas attempted to follow. "I just _will_ come in," he cried, wielding
his warped weapon with a flourish.

"You shall _not!_" To bar the way, the King's English thrust out his
polished tongue.

"I _will!_" _Crack! Crack!_

"You won't!" _Crack! Crack!_

The fight was on! For the combatants, tongue's-length from each other,
were prowling to and fro menacingly.

"Oh, there's going to be a tongue-lashing," cried Gwendolyn, frightened.

"I'm the King's Hinglish!"--it was the soldier's slogan.

"This is me!" sang Thomas, saucily flicking at a brass button. His face
was all cunning.

Then how the tongues popped!

"This is I!" corrected the King's English promptly. But his face got a
trifle more florid.

"Steady!" counseled the little old gentleman.

"I'm hall right," the other cried back.

"Oh, Piper!" said Gwendolyn; "which side are _you_ on?"

The Piper shifted his tobacco pipe from one corner of his mouth to the
other. "I'm for the man that's got the _cash_," he declared.

There was no doubt about Jane's choice. Seeing Thomas's momentary
advantage, she came spinning close to the Gate. "Use h-words, Thomas!"
she hummed. "Use h-words!"

Thomas acted upon her advice. "Hack and hit and hammer!" he charged.
"Haggle and halve and hamper! Halt and hang and harass!"

"'Ack and 'it and 'ammer!" struck back the King's English, beginning to
breath hard. "Aggie and 'alve and 'amper! 'Alt and 'ang and 'arass!"

As the tongues met, Gwendolyn saw small bright splinters fly this way
and that--a shower of them! These splinters darted downward, falling
upon the road. And each, as it lit, was an h!

The Policeman was frightened. "Which is your best foot?" he called.

The King's English indicated his right. "This!"

"Then put it forward!"

"My goodness!" exclaimed Gwendolyn. "Am I seeing this, or is it just
Pretend?"

Thomas now warmed to the fray. "Harm!" he scourged, "Harness! Hash! Hew!
Hoodwink! Hurt and hurk!"

"'Eavens!" breathed the King's English.

"Turn your cold shoulder," advised the little old gentleman.

The King's English thrust out the right. And it helped! "Oh, hayches
don't matter," he panted. "I'm hall right has long has 'is grammar
doesn't get too bad." And off came one of Thomas's ears--a large
one--and blew along the ground like a great leaf.

That was an unfortunate boast. For Thomas, enraged by the loss of an
ear, fought with renewed zeal. "If you see he, just tell I!" he shouted.

The King's English went pallid. "If you see 'im, just tell me," he
gasped, meeting Thomas gallantly--with the loss of only one splinter.

"Oh, I want you to win!" called Gwendolyn to him.

But the contest was unequal. That was now plain. The King's English had
polish and finish. Thomas had more: his tongue, newly sharpened, cut
deep at each blow.

Unequal as was the contest, Jane's interference a second time made it
more so. For as the fighters trampled to and fro, seeking the better of
each other, she twirled near again. "Try your _verbs_, Thomas!" she
counseled. "Try your verbs!"

Eagerly Thomas grasped this second hint. "By which I could was!" he
cried, with a curling stroke of the warped tongue; "or shall am!"

At that, the King's English showed distressing weakness. He seemed
scarcely to have enough strength for another snap. "By w'ich I could
be!" he whipped back feebly; "or shall 'ave been!" And staggered
sidewise.

Now the warped and twisted tongue began to chant past-participially: "I
done! I done!! I done!!!"

"'Elp!" implored the King's English, fairly wan. "Friends, this--this
fellow 'as treated me houtrageously for--for yaaws!"

"Oh, worser and worser and worser," pursued Thomas, changing suddenly
to adverbs.

"Rawly now--!" The King's English tottered to his knees.

"I _did_," prompted Gwendolyn, eager to help him.

"I did," repeated the King's English--but the polished tongue slipped
from his grasp!

"I seen!" followed up Thomas. "I sung!" _Crack! Crack!_

It was the last fatal onslaught.

The scarlet-coated figure fell forward. Yet bravely he strove again to
give tongue-lash for tongue-lash--by reaching out one palsied hand
toward his weapon.

"I--I--s-a-w!" he muttered; "I s-s-s-ing!"--And expired, with his last
breath gasping good grammar.

Instantly Thomas leaped the prostrate figure and strode to the Gate. He
was breathing hard, but looking about him boldly. "Now _I_ come
through," he boasted.

"O-o-o!" It was Gwendolyn's cry. "Officer, don't let him! _Don't!_"

In answer to her appeal, the Policeman seized Thomas by a lower ear and
shoved him against a gate-post. "You've committed murder!" he cried.
"And I arrest you!"

"Tongue-tie him!" shouted the little old gentleman, springing to jerk
Thomas's weapon out of his hand, and to snatch up the nicked and
splintered weapon of the vanquished soldier.

Under the great blazing sign of the Zoo entrance the capture was
accomplished. And in a moment, from his feet to his very ears, Thomas
was wrapped, arms tight against sides, in the scarlet toils of the
tongues.

"So!" exclaimed the little old gentleman as he tied a last knot.
"Thomas'll never bother my little girl again." And taking Gwendolyn by
the hand, he led her away.

It was not until she had gone some distance that she turned to take a
last look back. And saw, there beside the wide Gate, a rubber-plant, its
long leaves waving gently. It was Thomas, bound securely, and abandoned.

Yet she did not pity him. He had murdered the King's English, and he
deserved his punishment. Furthermore, he looked so green, so cool, so
ornamental!




CHAPTER XIII


So far, the Piper had seemed to be no one's friend--unless, perhaps, his
own. He had lagged along, surly or boisterous by turns, and careless of
his manners; not even showing respect to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces and the
Policeman! But now Gwendolyn remarked a change in him. For as he spoke
to her, he took his pipe out of his mouth--under the pretext of cleaning
it.

"Say!" he began in a cautious undertone: "I'll give you some advice
about Jane."

Gwendolyn was looking about her at the Zoo. Its roofs seemed countless.
They touched, having no streets between them anywhere, and reached as
far as she could see. They were all heights, all shapes, all
varieties--some being level, others coming to a point at one corner, a
few ending in a tower. One tower, on the outer-most edge of the Zoo, was
square, and tapered.

"Jane?" she said indifferently. "Oh, she's only a top."

"Only a top!" It was the little old gentleman. "Why, that makes her all
the _more_ dangerous!"

"Because she's spinning so fast"--the Policeman balanced on one arm
while he shook an emphatic finger--"that she'll stir up trouble!"

"Well, then, what shall I do?" asked Gwendolyn. For, elated over seeing
Thomas disposed of so completely--and yet with so much mercy--she was
impatient at hearing that she still had reason to fear the nurse.

The Piper took his time about replying. He sharpened one end of a
match, thrust the bit of pine into the stem of his pipe, jabbed away
industriously, threw away the match, blew through the stem once or
twice, and turned the bowl upside down to make it _plop, plop_ against a
palm. Then, "Keep Jane laughin'," he counseled, "--_and see what
happens_."

Jane was alongside, spinning comfortably on her shoe-leather point. Now,
as if she had overheard, or guessed a plot, sudden uneasiness showed on
both her countenances, and she increased her speed.

"You done up Thomas, the lot of you," she charged, as she whirled away.
"But you don't git _me_."

"And we won't," declared Gwendolyn, "if we don't hurry up and trip her."

"A _good_ idear!" chimed in the Piper.

"If we only had some string!" cried the little old gentleman.

"String won't do," said the Policeman. "We need rope."

There was a high wind sweeping the roofs. And as the three began to run
about, searching, it fluttered the Policeman's coat-tails, swelled out
the Piper's cap, and tugged at the ragged garb of the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

"Here's a piece of clothes-line!"

The Policeman made the find--catching sight of the line where it dangled
from the edge of a roof. The others hastened to join him. And each
seized the rope in both hands, the Piper staying at one end of it, the
little old gentleman at the opposite, while Gwendolyn and the Policeman
posted themselves at proper distances between. Then forward in a row
swept all, carrying the rope with them. It was a curious one of its
kind--as black as if it had been tarred, thick at the middle, but
noticeably thin at one end.

Jane saw their design. "Ba-a-a!" she mocked. "_I'm_ not afraid of you!
I'm goin' to turn the Big Rock. _Then_ you'll see!" And she made
straight toward the square tower in the distance.

"_Oh!_" It was the little old gentleman, beard blown sidewise by the
wind. "We musn't let her!"

The Piper, in his excitement, jounced the pig so hard that it squealed.
"We ought to be able," he panted, "to manage a top."

"Jane!" bellowed the Policeman, galloping hard. "You must _not_ injure
that shaft!"

Then Gwendolyn realized that the square _tower_ toward which the nurse
was spinning was the Big Rock. And she recognized it as a certain great
pillar of pink granite, up and down the sides of which, deep cut by
chisels, were written strange words.

It rose just ahead. Answering the Officer with a shrill, scoffing laugh,
Jane bore down upon it. Aided by the wind, she made top speed.

There was not a moment to lose. Her pursuers fairly tore after her. And
the Piper, who made the fastest progress, gained--until he was at her
very heels. Then with a final leap, he passed her, and circled, dragging
the rope.

It made a loop about the buttonless shoes--a loop that tightened as the
little old gentleman came short, as the Piper halted. Each gave a pull--

With disastrous result! For as the line came taut, up Jane went!--caught
bodily from the ground. And still spinning, whizzed forward in that
high wind and struck the granite squarely.

She fell to the ground, toppling sidewise, and bulking large.

But the shaft! It began to move--slowly at first--to tip forward,
farther and farther. When, gaining velocity, with a great grinding
noise, down from off the massive cube upon which it stood it came
crashing!

Instantly a chorus of cries arose: "Oh, she's bumped over the obelisk!
She's bumped over the obelisk!"

With the cries, and sounding from beneath the tapered end of the Big
Rock, mingled ferocious growls--"_Rar! Rar! Rar! Rar!_"

And in that same moment, the four who were holding the rope felt it
begin to writhe and twist in their grasp!--_like a live thing_. And its
black length took on a scaly look, glittering in that pink glow as if
it were covered with small ebon _paillettes_. It grew cold and clammy.
At its thicker end Gwendolyn saw that the Piper was supporting a head--a
head with small, fiery eyes and a tongue flame-like in its color and
swift darting. Next, "_Hiss-s-s-s-s!_" And with one hideous contortion,
the huge black body wrung itself free and coiled.

Once Gwendolyn had boasted that she was not afraid of snakes. And now
she did not flee, though the black coils were piled at her very feet.
For she recognized the serpent. There was no mistaking that thin face
and those small eyes. Moreover, a pocket-handkerchief was bound round
the reptilian jaws and tied at the top of the head in a bow-knot.

She had gotten rid of Thomas. But here was Miss Royle!

There was no time for greetings. Again were sounding those furious
growls--"_Rar! Rar! Rar!_"

Jane swung round in a half-circle to warn the governess. "It's that
Bear!" she hummed. "Can't you drive him away?"

Miss Royle began to uncoil.

The Policeman was _tick-tocking_ up and down. "The Den's damaged!" he
lamented.

"_Now_, who's goin' to pay?" demanded the Piper.

"I'm afraid the Bear's hurt," declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.

In her eagerness to trip Jane, Gwendolyn had utterly forgotten the
Bear's Den. Now she saw it--a large cage, light in color, its bars woven
closely together. And she saw too--with horror--that what the Policeman
said was true: In falling, the Big Rock had broken the cover of the
Den. This cover was flopping up and down on its hinges.

"Oh, he's loose!" she gasped.

"_Rar! Rar! Rar-r-r!_"

The Bear himself was knocking the cover into the air. The top of his
head could be seen as he hopped about, evidently in pain.

And now an extraordinary thing happened: A black glittering body shot
rustling through the grass to the side of the Den. Then up went a scaly
head, and forth darted a flaming tongue--driving the Bear back under the
cover!

At which the Bear rebelled. For his growls turned into a muffled
protest--"Now, you stop, Miss Royle! I _won't_ be treated like this! I
_won't!_"

Then Gwendolyn understood Jane's hum! And why the governess had obeyed
it so swiftly. The light-colored cage with the loose cover was nothing
else than the old linen-hamper! As for the Bear--!

Hair flying, cheeks crimson, eyes shining with quick tears of joy, she
darted past Jane, leaped the glittering snake-folds before the hamper,
and swung the cover up on its hinges.

"Puffy!" she cried. "Oh, Puffy!"

It was indeed Puffy, with his plushy brown head, his bright, shoe-button
eyes, his red-tipped, sharply pointed nose, his adorably tiny ears, and
deep-cut, tightly shut, determined mouth. It was Puffy, as dear as ever!
As old and as squashy!

He stood up in the hamper to look at her, leaning his front paws--in
rather a dignified manner--on the broken edge of the basketry. He was
breathing hard from his contest, but smiling nevertheless.

"Ah!" said he, affably. "The Poor Little Rich Girl, I see!"

Gwendolyn's first impulse was to take him up in her arms. But his proud
air, combined with the fact that he had grown tremendously, caused her
to check the impulse.

"How do you do?" she inquired politely.

"I'm pretty shabby, thank you."

"Oh, it's _so_ good to hear your voice again!" she exclaimed. "When you
left, I didn't have a chance to tell you good-by."

It was then that she noticed a white something fluttering at his breast,
just under his left fore-leg. "Excuse me," she said apologetically, "but
aren't you losing your pocket handkerchief?"

Sadly he shook his head. "It's my stuffing," he explained. And gently
withdrawing his paw from her eager grasp, laid it upon his breast. "You
see, the Big Rock--"

The little old gentleman was beside him, examining the wound; muttering
to himself.

"Can you mend him?" asked Gwendolyn. "Oh, Puffy!"

The little old gentleman began to empty his pockets of the articles with
which he had provided himself--the ear, the handful of hair, the plump
cheek. "Ah! Ah!" he breathed as he examined each one; and to and fro
wagged the grizzled beard. "I'm afraid--! I must have help. This is a
case that will require a specialist."

The tone was so solemn that it frightened her. "Oh, do you mean we need
a _Doctor?_"

Puffy was trembling weakly. "I lost some cotton-batting once before,"
he half-whispered to Gwendolyn. "It was when you were teething. Oh, I
know it was unintentional! You were _so_ little. But--I can't spare any
more."

Down into the patch-pocket went her hand. Out came the lip-case. She
thrust it into his furry grasp. "Keep this," she bade, "till I come
back. _I'll_ go for the Doctor."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces leaned down. "Fly!" he urged.

At that, Jane began to circle once more. "Lovie," she hummed, "don't you
go! He'll give you nasty medicine!"

"Hiss-s-s-s!" chimed in Miss Royle, her bandaged head rising and
lowering in assent. "He'll cut out your appendix."

One moment she hesitated, feeling the old fear drive the blood from her
cheeks--to her wildly beating heart. Then she saw Puffy sway, half
fainting. And obeying the command of the little old gentleman, she
grasped her gingham dress at either side--held it out to its fullest
width--and with the wind pouching the little skirt, left the high grass,
passed up through the lights of the nearby trees--and rose into the
higher air!

She gave a glance down as she went. How excitedly Jane was circling! How
Miss Royle was lashing the ground!

But the faces of the other three were smiling encouragement. And she
flew for her very life. Lightly she went--as if there were nothing to
her but her little gingham dress; as if that empty dress, having tugged
at some swagging clothes-line until it was free, were now being wafted
across the roofs, the tree-tops, the smooth windings of a road, to--

A bake-shop, without doubt! For her nostrils caught the good smell of
fresh bread. Suddenly the shop loomed ahead of her. She alighted to
have a look at it.

It was a round, high, stone building, with stone steps leading up to it
from every side, and columns ranged in a circle at the top of the steps.
Seated on the bottom step, engrossed in some task, was a man.

As Gwendolyn looked at him she told herself that the Man-Who-Makes-Faces
had given this customer such a nice face; the eyes, in particular, were
kind.

He had a large pan of bread-dough beside him. Out of it, now, he gouged
a spoonful, which he began to roll between his palms. And as he rolled
the dough, it became rounder and rounder, until it was ball-like. It
turned browner and browner, too, precisely as if it were baking in his
hands! When he was finished with it, he piled it to one side, atop
other brown pellets.

She advanced to speak. "Please," she began, pointing a small finger,
"what is this place?"

He glanced up. "This, little girl, is the Pillery."

The Pillery! Instantly she knew what he was making--_bread-pills_.

And the bread-pills helped her to recognize him. She dimpled cordially.
"I haven't seen you since I had the colic," she said, nodding, "but I
know you. You're the Doctor!"

The Doctor was most cordial, shaking her hand gently; after which,
naturally enough, he felt her pulse.

"But there's nothing the matter with _me_," she protested. "It's my dear
Puffy. _You_ remember."

Now he rose solemnly, selected a fresh-baked pill, bowed to the right,
again to the left, last of all, to her--and presented the pill.

"In that case, Miss Gwendolyn," he said, smiling down, "a toast!"

And--quite in contrast to the evening of her seventh birthday
anniversary--toast there _was_, deliciously crisp and crunchy!

"Oo! How good!" she exclaimed, not nibbling conventionally, but taking
big bites. "'Cause I hate cake!"

The next moment she became aware of the munching of others. And on
looking round, found that she was back at the Den. She was not
surprised. Things had a way of coming to pass in a pleasantly
instantaneous fashion. And she was glad to see the little old gentleman,
the Piper and the Policeman each fairly gobbling up a pellet. Miss
Royle was eating, too, and Jane was stuffing _both_ mouths.

But Puffy was having quite different fare. In front of him stood the
Doctor, busily feeding filmy white bits into the tear just under a
fore-leg.

"I think you'll find," assured the latter, "that a proper amount of
cotton-batting is most refreshing."

"Once I wanted Jane to take me to the Doll Hospital," complained Puffy,
his shoe-button eyes hard with resentment; "but she said I was only a
little beast."

Gwendolyn looked severe. "Jane, you'll be sorry for that," she scolded.

"Ah-_ha!_ my dear!" said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, addressing the nurse,
"at last one of your chickens is coming home to roost!"

Gwendolyn glanced up. And, sure enough, a chicken _was_ going past--a
small blue hen, who looked exceedingly fagged. (This was an occurrence
worth noting. How often had she heard the selfsame remark--and never
seen as much as a feather!)

Jane also saw the blue hen. And appeared much disconcerted. "I think
I'll take forty winks," she hummed; "--twenty for the front face, and
twenty for the back." Whereupon she made a few quick revolutions,
landing up against the granite base of the obelisk.

The Doctor had been sewing up the tear in Puffy's coat. Now he finished
his seam and knotted the thread. "There!" said he, cheerily. "You're as
good as new!"

"Thank you," said Puffy. "And I feel so grateful to you, Miss Gwendolyn,
that I must repay your kindness. You've always heard a certain
statement about Jane, yonder. Well, I'm going to prove that it's
_true_."

"What's true?" asked Gwendolyn, puzzled.

He made no answer. But after a short whispered conference with the
Policeman, turned his back and began sniffing and snarling under his
breath, while a fore-paw was busy in the region of his third rib. When
he faced round again, the shoe-button eyes were shining triumphantly,
and he was holding both fore-paws together tightly.

"I found one!" he cried. And wabbling over to Jane, stationed himself on
one side of her, at the same time motioning the Officer to steal round
to the other side on quiet hands.

And now Gwendolyn saw that Jane, though she was only feigning sleep,
was ignorant of what was happening. For her double equipment of faces
had its disadvantages. Even when upright she had not been able to roll
one eye forward while its mate was on guard in the rear. And reclining
flat upon her back, she could not rumble her eyes forward to her front
face for the reason that they would not roll up-hill. Both stayed in the
back of her head, where they could see only the ground.

Very cautiously Puffy put his fore-paws to Jane's ear--suddenly
separated them--and waited.

A moment. Then, "Well, finding _this_ out, you can wager I don't stay
heels over head no more!" cried the Policeman. And with a wriggle and a
twist and a bound, he gave a half somersault and stood on his feet!

At once, the bottoms of his trouser-legs came down over his shoes, his
coat-tails fell about him properly, uncovering his shield and his belt,
and his club took its place at his right side. "Ouch!" he exclaimed. And
began to scratch hard at the spot just between his shoulder-blades. At
the same time, the tears that were in his cap flowed out and down his
face. So that he seemed to be weeping.

The Doctor, leaning close beside Gwendolyn, was all sympathy. "There is
no reason to feel bad," he said kindly. "The operation was successful."

"Feel bad!" repeated the Policeman. "Why, I'm _laughing_. Ha! Ha! We put
a flea in her ear!"

At that, Jane began to laugh "Oh, laws!" she exclaimed, sleeve to mouth
once more. "Oh, I never heard the like of it!"

"_Rar!_" growled Puffy, delighted. "The plan is working! See her
growl!"

"That flea went in one ear and came out the other," declared the little
old gentleman, poking Jane with the toe of a worn shoe.

Jane laughed the harder. "Oh, it's awful funny!" she cried, rocking
herself to and fro--and steadily increasing her girth. "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

"We've proved that you're empty-headed," said Puffy.

And now the nurse was seized by a very paroxysm of mirth. Both faces
distorted, she whopped over and over.

"That's right! Split your sides alaughin'," cried the Piper.

At these words, sudden terror showed on her face. For the first time she
saw the trap into which she had been led!

Yet she could not check her laughter. "Oh, ho!" she gasped
hysterically; "_oh!_--"

It was her last. Black sateen could stand no more.

She gave a final and feeble rock. Both revolving faces paled. Then there
sounded a loud _pop_--like the bursting of an automobile tire. Next, a
ripping--

"Look!" cried Gwendolyn.

There were great rents down the front seams of Jane's waist!

The nurse guessed what had happened, and clutched desperately at the
gaping seams with both fat hands--now in front, now at the sides,
striving to hold the rips together.

To no avail! All the laughter was gone out of her. Quickly she
collapsed, her sateen hanging in loose, ragged strips. Once more she was
just ordinary nurse-maid size.

"Oh, will she die?" asked Gwendolyn, anxiously.

The Doctor knelt to grasp Jane's wrist. "No," he answered gravely;
"she'll only have to go back to the Employment Agency."

"I won't!" cried Jane. "_I_ won't!--Miss Royle!"

"_Hiss-ss-ss!_"

"Get you-know-what out of the way! A certain person musn't talk to it!
If she does she'll find--"

"I understand!" hissed back the snake.

_You-know-what?_ Gwendolyn was troubled.

Now the Policeman and the Piper, assisted by Puffy, picked the nurse up
and packed her into the linen-hamper. Whereupon the little old gentleman
slapped down the cover and tied a large tag to it. On the tag was
written--_Employment Agency, Down-Town!_"

"I'm done with _her_" said Gwendolyn; "--if she _is_ a perfectly good
top."

"You're rid of me," answered Jane, calling through the weave of the
hamper "_Yes!_ But how about _Miss Royle?_"

"We'll send her back too," declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Here!
Where _are_ you?" He ran about, searching.

The others searched also--through the grass, behind the granite shift,
everywhere. Concern sobered each face.

For the snake-in-the-grass was gone!




CHAPTER XIV


Why had Miss Royle, sly reptile that she was, scuttled away without so
much as a good-by?

"Oh, dear!" sighed Gwendolyn; "just as soon as one trouble's finished,
another one starts!"

"We must get on her track!" declared the Policeman, patroling to and fro
anxiously.

"And let's hurry," urged the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "It's coming night in
the City. And all these lights'll be needed soon."

Very soon, indeed. For even as he spoke it happened--with a sharp click.
Instantly the pink glow was blotted out. As suddenly thick blackness
shut down.

Except straight ahead! There Gwendolyn made out an oblong patch of sky
in which were a few dim stars.

"Never mind," went on the little old gentleman, soothingly. "Because
we're close to the place where there's light all the time."

"_All_ the time?" repeated Gwendolyn, surprised.

"It's where light grows."

"_Grows?_"

"Well, it's where _candle_-light grows."

"Candle-light!" she cried. "You mean--! Oh, it's where my fath-er
comes!"

"Sometimes."

"Will he be there now?"

"Only the Bird can tell us that."

Then she understood Jane's last gasping admonition--"Get you-know-what
out of the way! A certain person mustn't talk to it! If she does she'll
find--"

It was the Doctor's hand that steadied her as she hurried forward in the
darkness. It was a big hand, and she was able to grasp only two fingers
of it. But that clinging hold made her feel that their friendship was
established. She was not at all surprised at her complete change of
attitude toward him. It seemed to her now as if he and she had always
been on good terms.

The others were near. She could hear the _tinkle-tankle_ of the Piper's
pipes, the scuff of Puffy's paws, the labored breathing of the little
old gentleman as he trudged, the heavy tramp, tramp of the Policeman.
She made her bare feet travel as fast as she could, and kept her look
steadily ahead on the dim stars.

And saw, moving from one to another of them, in quick darts--now up,
now down--a small Something. She did not instantly guess what it
was--flitting across that half-darkened sky. Until she heard the wild
beating of tiny pinions!

"Why, it's a bird!" she exclaimed.

"A bird?" repeated the Policeman, all eagerness.

"Must be _the_ Bird!" declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, triumphantly.

It was. Even in the poor light her eager eyes made out the bumps on that
small feathered head. And saw that on the down-drooping tail, nicely
balanced, and gleaming whitely, was a lump.

Remembering what she had heard about that bit of salt, she ran forward.
At her approach, his wings half-lifted. And as she reached out to him,
pointing a small finger, he sprang sidewise, alighting upon it.

"Oh, I'm glad you've come!" he panted.

He was no larger than a canary; and seemed to be brown--a sparrow-brown.
Prejudiced against him she had been. He had tattled about her--_worse_,
about her father. Yet seeing him now, so tiny and ruffled and
frightened, she liked him.

She brought him to a level with her eyes. "What's the matter?" she asked
soothingly.

"I'm afraid." He thrust out his head, pointing. "_Look_."

She looked. Ahead the tops of the grass blades were swaying this way and
that in a winding path--as if from the passage of some crawling thing!

"She tried to get me out of the way!"

"Oh, tell me where is my fath-er!"

"Why, of _course_. They say he's--"

He did not finish; or if he did she heard no end to the sentence. Of a
sudden her face had grown almost painfully hot--as a great yellow light
flamed against it, a light that shimmered up dazzlingly from the surface
of a broad treeless field. This field was like none that she had ever
imagined. For its acres were neatly sodded with _mirrors_.

The little company was on the beveled edge of the field. To halt them,
and conspicuously displayed, was a sign. It read--

    _Keep off The Glass._

"'Keep off the glass,'" read Gwendolyn. "And I don't wonder. 'Cause we'd
crack it."

"We don't crack it, we cross it," reminded the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And
stepped boldly upon the gleaming plate.

"My! My!" exclaimed the Piper. "Ain't there a _fine_ crop this year!"

A fine crop? Gwendolyn glanced down. And saw for the first time that
the mirrored acres were studded, flower-like, with countless silk-shaded
candles!

What curious candles they were! They did not grow horizontally, as she
had imagined they must, but upright and candle-like. Above their sticks,
which were of brass, silver and decorated porcelain, was a flame, ruddy
of tip, sharply pointed, but fat and yellow at the base, where the soft
white wax fed the fire; at the other end of the sticks, as like the top
light as if it were a perfect reflection, was a second flame. These were
candles that burned _at both ends_.

And this was the region she had traveled so far to find! Her heart beat
so wildly that it stirred the plaid of the little gingham dress.

"Say! I hear a quacking!" announced Puffy, staring up into the sky.

Gwendolyn heard it, too. It seemed to come from across the Field of
Double-Ended Candles. She peered that way, to where a heavy fringe of
trees walled the farther side greenily.

She saw him first!--while the others (excepting the Bird) were still
staring skyward. At the start, what she discerned was only a faint
outline on the tree-wall--the outline of a man, broad-shouldered, tall,
but a trifle stooped. It was faint for the reason that it blended with
the trees. For the man was garbed in green.

As he advanced into the field, the chorus of quacks grew louder. And
presently Gwendolyn caught certain familiar expressions--"Oh, don't
bozzer me!" "Sit up straight, Miss! Sit up straight!" (this a rather
deep quack). "My dear child, you have no sense of time!" And, "What on
earth ever put such a question into your head!" She concluded that the
expressions were issuing from the large bell-shaped horn which was
pointed her way over one shoulder of the man in green. The
talking-machine to which the horn was attached--a handsome mahogany
affair--he carried on his back. It was not unlike a hand-organ. Which
made Gwendolyn wonder if he was not the Man-Who-Makes-Faces' brother.

She glanced back inquiringly at the little old gentleman. Either the
stranger _was_ a relation--and not a popular one--or else the quacking
expressions annoyed. For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was scowling. And,
"Cavil, criticism, correction!" he scolded, half to himself.

He in green now began to move about and gather silk-shaded candles,
bending this way and that to pluck them, and paying not the slightest
attention to the group of watchers in plain view. But not one of these
was indifferent to _his_ presence. And all were acting in a most
incomprehensible manner. With one accord, Doctor and Piper, Bear and
Policeman, Face-maker and Bird, were rubbing hard at the palm of one
hand. There being no trees close by, the men used the sole of a shoe,
while Puffy raked away at one paw with the claws of the others, and the
Bird pecked a foot with his beak.

And yet Gwendolyn could not believe that it was really _he_.

The Policeman drew near. "You've heard of Hobson's choice?" he inquired
in a low voice. "Perhaps this is Hobson, or Sam Hill, or Punch, or Great
Scott."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces shook his head. "You don't know him," he
answered, "because recently, when the bears were bothering him a lot in
his Street, I made him a long face."

The man in green was pausing where the candles clustered thickest.
Gwendolyn, still doubtful, went forward to greet him.

"How do you do, sir," she began, curtseying.

His face was long, as the Man-Who-Makes-Faces had pointed out--very
long, and pale, and haggard. Between his sunken temples burned his
dark-rimmed eyes. His nose was thin, and over it the skin was drawn so
tightly that his nostrils were pinched. His lips were pressed together,
driving out the blood. His cheeks were hollow, and shadowed bluely by a
day-old beard. He had on a hat. Yet she was able (curiously enough!) to
note that his hair was sparse over the top of his head, and streaked
with gray.

Nevertheless there was no denying that she recognized him dimly.

Something knotted in her throat--at seeing weariness, anxiety, even
torture, in those deep-set eyes. "I think I've met you before
somewhere," she faltered. "Your--your long face--" The Bird was perched
on the forefinger of one hand. She proffered the other.

He did not even look at her. "My hands are full," he declared. And
again, "My hands are full."

She glanced at them. And saw that each was indeed full--of paper money.
Moreover, the green of his coat was the green of new crisp bills. While
his buff-colored trousers were made of yellowish ones, carefully
creased.

He was literally _made of money_.

Now she felt reasonably certain of his identity. Yet she determined to
make even more sure. "Would you mind just turning around for a moment?"
she inquired.

"But I'm busy to-day," he protested, "I can't be bothered with little
girls. I'll see you when you're eight years old." Nevertheless he faced
about accommodatingly.

The moment he turned his back he displayed a detail of his dress that
had not been visible before. This detail, at first glance, appeared to
be a smart leather piping. On second glance it seemed a sort of
shawl-strap contrivance by which the talking-machine was suspended. But
in the end she knew what it was--a leather harness!--an exceedingly
handsome, silver-buckled, hand-sewed harness!

She went around him and raised a smiling face--caught at a hand, too;
and felt her own happy tears make cool streaks down her cheeks. "I--I
don't see you often," she said, "bu-but I know you just the same.
You're--you're my fath-er!"

At that, he glanced down at her--stooped--picked a candle--and held it
close to her face.

"Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"

"Poor little _rich_ girl," she prompted, noting that he had left out the
word.

She heard a sob!

The next moment, _Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_ And at her feet the
gay-topped candles were bent this way and that--as Miss Royle, with an
artful serpent-smile on her bandaged face, writhed her way swiftly
between them!

"Dearie," she hissed, making an affectionate half-coil about Gwendolyn,
"what _do_ you think I'm going to say to you!"

Gwendolyn only shook her head.

"_Guess_, darling," encouraged the governess, coiling herself a little
closer.

"Maybe you're going to say, 'Use your dictionary,'" ventured Gwendolyn.

"Oh, dearie!" chided Miss Royle, managing a very good blush for a snake.

But now Gwendolyn guessed the reason for the other's sudden display of
affection. For that scaly head was rising out of the grass, inch by
inch, and those glittering serpent eyes were fixed upon the Bird!

Unable to move, he watched her, plumage on end, round eyes fairly
starting.

"_Cheep! Cheep!_"

At his cry of terror, the Doctor interposed. "I think we'd better take
the Bird out of here," he said. "The less noise the better." And with
that, he lifted the small frightened thing from Gwendolyn's finger.

Miss Royle, quite thrown off her poise, sank hissing to the ground. "My
neuralgia's worse than ever this evening," she complained, affecting not
to notice his interference.

"Huh!" he grunted. "Keep away from bargain counters."

The Piper came jangling up. "That snake belongs in her case," he
declared, addressing the Doctor.

More than once Gwendolyn had wondered why the Piper had burdened
himself--to all appearances uselessly and foolishly--with the various
pieces of lead pipe. But now what wily forethought she granted him. For
with a few quick flourishes of the wrench, she saw him join them, end to
end, to form one length. This he threw to the ground, after which he
gave a short, sharp whistle.

In answer to it, the Bird fluttered down, and entered one end of the
pipe, giving, as he disappeared from sight, one faint cheep.

Miss Royle heard. Her scaly head glittered up once more. Her beady eyes
shone. Her tongue darted hate. Then little by little, that long black
body began to move--toward the pipe!

A moment, and she entered it; another, and the last foot of rustling
serpent had disappeared. Then out of the farther end of the pipe bounced
the Bird. Whereat the Piper sprang to the Bird's side, produced a nut,
and screwed it on the pipe-end.

"How's that!" he cried triumphantly.

The pipe rolled partly over. A muffled voice came from it, railing at
him: "Be careful what you do, young man! _I_ saw you had that bonnet of
mine!"

"Oh, can a snake crawl backwards?" demanded Gwendolyn, excitedly.

The Piper answered with a harsh laugh. And scrambling the length of the
lead pipe, fell to hammering in a plug.

Miss Royle was a prisoner!

The Bird bounced very high. "That's a feather in _your_ cap," he
declared joyously, advancing to the Piper. And suiting the action to the
word, pulled a tiny plume from his own wing, fluttered up, and thrust it
under the band of the other's greasy head-gear.

"Think how that governess has treated me," growled Puffy. "When I was in
your nursery, and was old and a little worn out, _how_ I would've
appreciated care--and repair!"

"The Employment Agency for her," said the Piper.

"I'll attend to that," added the Policeman.

Gwendolyn's father had been gathering candles, and had seemed not to see
what was transpiring. Now as if he was satisfied with his load, he
suddenly started away in the direction he had come. His firm stride
jolted the talking-machine not a little. The quacking cries
recommenced--

"Please to pay me.... Let me sell you...! Let me borrow...! Won't you
hire...! _Quack! Quack! Quack!_"

After him hurried the others in an excited group. The Piper led it, his
plumbing-tools jangling, his pig-poke a-swing. And Gwendolyn saw him
grin back over a shoulder craftily--then lay hold of her father and
_tighten a strap_.

She trudged in the rear. She had found her father--and he could see
only the candles he sought, and the money in his grasp! She was out in
the open with him once more, where she was free to gambol and shout--yet
he was bound by his harness and heavily laden.

"I might just as well be home," she said to Puffy, disheartened.

"Wish your father'd let me sharpen his ears," whispered the
Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He shifted the hand-organ to the other shoulder.

The Doctor had a basket on his arm. He peered into it. "I haven't a
thing about me," he declared, "but a bread-pill."

"How would a glass of soda-water do?" suggested the Policeman, in an
undertone.

"Why, of _course!_"

It had happened before that the mere mention of a thing brought that
dying swiftly. Now it happened again. For immediately Gwendolyn heard
the rush and bubble and brawl of a narrow mountain-stream. Next, looking
down from the summit of a gentle rise, she saw the smoky windings of the
unbottled soda!

The Doctor was a man of action. Though the Policeman had made his
suggestion only a second before, here was the former already leaning
down to the stream; and, having dipped, was walking in the midst of the
little company, glass in hand.

Gwendolyn ran forward. "Fath-er!" she called; "_please_ have a drink!"

Her father shook his head. "I'm not thirsty," he declared, utterly
ignoring the proffered glass.

"I--I was 'fraid he wouldn't," sighed Gwendolyn, head down again, and
scuffing bare feet in the cool damp grass of the stream-side--yet not
enjoying it! The lights had changed: The double-ended candles had
disappeared. Filling the Land once more with a golden glow were
countless tapers--electric, gas, and kerosene. She was back where she
had started, threading the trees among which she had danced with joy.

But she was far from dancing now!

"Let's not give up hope," said a voice--the Doctor's. He was holding up
the glass before his face to watch the bubbles creaming upon its
surface. "There may be a sudden turn for the better."

Before she could draw another breath--here was the turn! a sharp one.
And she, felt a keen wind in her eyes,--blown in gusts, as if by the
wings of giant butterflies. The cloud that held the wind lay just
ahead--a pinky mass that stretched from sky to earth.

The Bird turned his dark eyes upon Gwendolyn from where he sat, high and
safe, on the Doctor's shoulder. "I think her little journey's almost
done," he said. There was a rich canary note in his voice.

"Oo! goody!" she cried.

"You mean you have a solution?" asked the little old gentleman.

"A solution?" called back the Piper. "Well--?"

A moment's perfect stillness. Then, "It's simple," said the Bird. (Now
his voice was strangely like the Doctor's.) "I suppose you might call it
a salt solution."

His last three words began to run through Gwendolyn's mind--"A salt
solution! A salt solution! A salt solution!"--as regularly as the pulse
that throbbed in her throat.

"Yes,"--the Doctor's voice now, breathless, low, tremulous with
anxiety. "If we want to save her--"

"Am I _her?_" interrupted Gwendolyn. (And again somebody sobbed!)

"--_It must be done!_"

"There isn't anything to cry about," declared Gwendolyn, stoutly. She
felt hopeful, even buoyant.

It was all novel and interesting. The Doctor began by making grabs at
the lump of salt on the Bird's tail. The lump loosened suddenly. He
caught it between his palms, after which he began to roll it--precisely
as he had rolled the dough at the Pillery. And as the salt worked into a
more perfect ball, it slowly browned!

Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "My father won't know the difference," she
cried.

"You get my idea exactly," answered the Bird.

The Doctor uncovered the pill-basket, selected a fine, round, toasted
example of his own baking, and presented it to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces;
presented a second to Gwendolyn; thence went from one to another of the
little company, whereat everyone fell to eating.

At once Gwendolyn's father looked round the circle of picknickers--as if
annoyed by the crunching; but when the Doctor held out the brown salt,
he took it, examined it critically, turning it over and over, then
lifted it--and bit.

"Pretty slim lunch this," he observed.

He ate heartily, until the last salt crumb was gone. Then, "I'm
thirsty," he declared "Where's--?"

Instantly the Doctor proffered the glass. And the other drank--in one
great gasping mouthful.

"Ah!" breathed Gwendolyn. And felt a grateful coolness on her lips, as
if she had slaked her own thirst.

The next moment her father turned. And she saw that the change had
already come. First of all, he looked down at his hands, caught sight of
the crumpled bills, and attempted to stuff them hurriedly into his
pocket. But his pockets were already wedged tight with silk-shaded
candles. He reached round and fed the bills into the mahogany case of
the talking-machine. Next, he emptied his pockets of the double-ended
candles, frowned at them, and threw them to one side to wilt. Last of
all, he spied a bit of leather strap, and pulled at it impatiently.
Whereupon, with a clear ring of its silver mountings, his harness fell
about his feet.

He smiled, and stepped out of it, as out of a cast-off garment. This
quick movement shook up the talking-machine, and at once voices issued
from the great horn shrilly protesting into his ear--"_Quack!_ Quack!
_Kommt, Fraulein!_" "_Une fille stupider!_" "Gid-_dap!_" "_Honk! Honk!
Honk!_"--and then, rippling upward, to the accompaniment of dancing
feet, a scale on a piano.

He peered into the horn. "When did I come by _this?_" he demanded.
"Well, I shan't carry it another step!" And moving his shoulders as if
they ached, let the talking-machine slip sidewise to the glass.

There was a crank attached to one side of the machine. This he grasped.
And while he continued to stuff bills into the mahogany box with one
hand, he turned the crank with the other. Gwendolyn had often marveled
at the way bands of music, voices of men and women, chimes of clocks,
and bugle-calls could come out of the self-same place. Now this was made
clear to her. For as her father whirled the crank, out of the horn, in a
little procession, waddled the creatures who had quacked so
persistently.

There were six of them in all. One wore patent leather pumps; one had a
riding-whip; the third was in motor-livery--buff and blue; another
waddled with an air unmistakably French (feathers formed a boa about her
neck); the next advanced firmly, a metronome swinging on a slender
pince-nez chain; the last one of all carried a German dictionary.

Her father observed them gloomily. "_That's_ the kind of ducks and
drakes I've been making out of my money," he declared.

The procession quacked loudly, as if glad to get out. And waddled
toward the stream.

"Why!" cried Gwendolyn; "there's Monsieur Tellegen, and my
riding-master, and the chauffeur, and my French teacher, and my
music-teacher, and my Ger--!"

His eyes rested upon her then. And she saw that he knew her!

"Oh, daddy!"--the tender name she loved to call him.

"Little daughter! Little daughter!"

She felt his arms about her, pressing her to him. His pale face was
close. "When my precious baby is strong enough--," he began.

"I'm strong _now_." She gripped his fingers.

"We'll take a little jaunt together."

"We must have moth-er with us, daddy. Oh, _dear_ daddy!"

"We'll see mother soon," he said; "--_very_ soon."

She brushed his cheek with searching fingers. "I think we'd better start
right away," she declared. "'Cause--isn't this a rain-drop on your
face?"




CHAPTER XV


Without another moment's delay Gwendolyn and her father set forth,
traveling a road that stretched forward beside the stream of soda,
winding as the stream wound, to the music of the fuming water--music
with a bass of deep pool-notes.

How sweet it all was! Underfoot the dirt was cool. It yielded itself
deliciously to Gwendolyn's bare tread. Overhead, shading the way, were
green boughs, close-laced, but permitting glimpses of blue. Upon this
arbor, bouncing along with an occasional chirp of contentment, and with
the air of one who has assumed the lead, went the Bird.

Gwendolyn's father walked in silence, his look fixed far ahead.
Trotting at his side, she glanced up at him now and then. She did not
have to dread the coming of Jane, or Miss Royle, or Thomas. Yet she felt
concern--on the score of keeping beside him; of having ready a remark,
gay or entertaining, should he show signs of being bored.

No sooner did the thought occur to her than the Bird was ready with a
story. He fluttered down to the road, hunted a small brush from under
his left wing and scrubbed carefully at the feathers covering his crop.
"Now I can make a clean breast of it," he announced.

"Oh, you're going to tell us how you got the lump?" asked Gwendolyn,
eagerly.

The feathers over his crop were spotless. He nodded--and tucked away the
scrubbing brush. "Once upon a time," he began--

She dimpled with pleasure. "I like stories that start that way!" she
interrupted.

"Once upon a time," he repeated, "I was just an ordinary sparrow,
hopping about under the kitchen-window of a residence, busily picking up
crumbs. While I was thus employed, the cook in the kitchen happened to
spill some salt on the floor. Being a superstitious creature she
promptly threw a lump of it over her shoulder. Well, the kitchen window
was open, and the salt went through it and lit on my tail," (Here he
pointed his beak to where the crystal had been). "And no sooner did it
get firmly settled on my feathers--"

"The first person that came along could catch you!" cried Gwendolyn,
"Jane told me _that_."

"Jane?" said the Bird.

"The fat two-faced woman that was my nurse."

The Bird ruffled his plumage. "Well, of course she knew the facts," he
admitted "You see, _she was the cook_."

"Oh!"

"As long as that lump was on my tail," resumed the Bird, "anybody could
catch me, and send me anywhere. And nobody ever seemed to want to take
the horrid load off--with salt so cheap."

"Did you do errands for my fath-er?"

Her father answered. "Messages and messages and messages," he murmured
wearily. (There was a rustle, as of paper.) "Mostly financial," He
sighed.

"Sometimes my work has eased up a trifle," went on the Bird, more
cheerily; "that's when They hired Jack Robinson, because he's so quick."

"Oh, yes, you worked for They," said Gwendolyn. "Please, who are They?
And what do They look like? And how many are there of 'em?"

Ahead was a bend in the road. He pointed it out with his bill. "You
know," said he, "it's just as good to turn a corner as a stone. For
there They are now!" He gave an important bounce.

She rounded the bend on tiptoe. But when she caught sight of They, it
seemed as if she had seen them many times before. They were two in
number, and wore top hats, and plum-covered coats with black piping.
They were standing in the middle of the road, facing each other. About
their feet fluttered dingy feathers. And between them was a half-plucked
crow, which They were picking.

Once she had wanted to thank They for the pocket in the new dress. Now
she felt as if it would be ridiculous to mention patch-pockets to such
stately personages. So, leaving her father, she advanced modestly and
curtsied.

"How do you do, They," she began. "I'm glad to meet you."

They stared at her without replying. They were alike in face as well as
in dress; even in their haughty expression of countenance.

"I've heard about you so often," went on Gwendolyn. "I feel I almost
know you. And I've heard lots of things that you've said. Aren't you
always saying things?"

"Saying things," They repeated. (She was astonished to find that They
spoke in chorus!) "Well, it's often So-and-So that does the talking, but
we get the blame." Now They glared.

Gwendolyn, realizing that she had been unfortunate in the choice of a
subject, hastened to reassure them. "Oh, I don't want to blame you,"
she protested, "for things you don't do."

At that They smiled. "I blame him, and he blames me," They answered. "In
that way we shift the responsibility." (At which Gwendolyn nodded
understandingly.) "And since we always hunt as a couple" (here They
pulled fiercely at the feathers of the captured bird between them)
"nobody ever knows who really _is_ to blame."

They cast aside the crow, then, and led the way along the road, walking
briskly. Behind them walked the Policeman, one hand to his cap.

"Say, please don't put me off the Force," he begged.

Grass and flowers grew along the center of the road. No sooner did the
Policeman make his request than They moved across this tiny hedge and
traveled one side of the road, giving the other side over to the
Officer. Whereupon he strode abreast of They, swinging his night-stick
thoughtfully.

The walking was pleasant there by the stream-side. The fresh breeze
caressed Gwendolyn's cheeks, and swirled her yellow hair about her
shoulders. She took deep breaths, through nostrils swelled to their
widest.

"Oh, I like this place best in the whole, whole world!" she said
earnestly.

The next moment she knew why! For rounding another bend, she caught
sight of a small boyish figure in a plaid gingham waist and jeans
overalls. His tousled head was raised eagerly. His blue eyes shone.

"_Hoo_-hoo-oo-oo!" he called.

She gave a leap forward. "Why, it's Johnnie Blake!" she cried.
"Johnnie! Oh, Johnnie!"

It was Johnnie. There was no mistaking that small freckled nose. "Say!
Don't you want to help dig worms?" he invited. And proffered his
drinking-cup.

She needed no urging, but began to dig at once; and found bait in
abundance, so that the cup was quickly filled, and she was compelled to
use his ragged straw hat. "Oh, isn't this nice!" she exclaimed. "And
after we fish let's hunt a frog!"

"I know where there's tadpoles," boasted he. "And long-legged bugs that
can walk on the water, and--"

"Oh, I want to stay here always!"

She had forgotten that there were others about. But now a voice--her
father's--broke in upon her happy chatter:

"Without your _mother?_"

She had been sitting down. She rose, and brushed her hands on the skirt
of her dress. "I'll find my moth-er," she said.

The little old gentleman was beside Johnnie, patting his shoulder and
thrusting something into a riveted pocket. "There!" he half-whispered.
"And tell your father to be sure to keep this nose away from the
grindstone."

Gwendolyn wrinkled her brows. "But--but isn't Johnnie coming with _me?_"
she asked.

At that Johnnie shook his head vigorously. "Not away from _here_," he
declared. "No!"

"No," repeated Puffy. "Not away from the woods and the stream and
fishing, and hunting frogs and tadpoles and water-bugs. Why, he's the
Rich Little Poor Boy!"

"Oh!--Well, then I'll come back!" She moved away slowly, looking over a
shoulder at him as she went. "Don't forget! I'll come back!"

"I'll be here," he answered. "And I'll let you use my willow fishpole."
He waved a hand.

There were carriage-lamps along the stream now. Alternating with these
were automobile lights--brass side-lights, and larger brass
search-lights, all like great glowing eyes.

Again They were in advance. "We can't be very far from the Barn," They
announced. And each waved his right arm in a half-circle.

"Robin Hood's Barn?" whispered Gwendolyn.

The Policeman nodded. "The first people to go around it," said he, "were
ladies who used feather-dusters on the parlor furniture."

"I s'pose it's been built a long time," said Gwendolyn.

"Ah, a _long_ time!" Her father was speaking. Now he halted and pointed
down--to a wide road that crossed the one she was traveling. "Just
notice how _that's_ been worn."

The wide road had deep ruts. Also, here and there upon it were great,
bowl-like holes. But a level strip between the ruts and the holes shone
as if it had been tramped down by countless feet.

"Around Robin Hood's Barn!" went on her father sadly. "How many have
helped to wear that road! Not only her mother, but _her_ mother before
her, and then back and back as far as you can count."

"I can't count back very far," said Gwendolyn, "'cause I never have any
time for 'rithmatic. I have to study my French, and my German, and my
music, and my--"

Her father groaned. "I've traveled it, too," he admitted.

She lifted her eyes then. And there, just across that wide road, was the
Barn!--looming up darkly, a great framework of steel girders, all bolted
together, and rusted in patches and streaks. Through these girders could
be seen small regular spots of light.

"Nobody _has_ to go round the Barn," she protested. "Anybody could just
go right in at one side and right out at the other."

"But the _road!_" said her father meaningly. "If ever one's feet touch
it--!"

She thought the road wonderful. It was river-wide, and full of gentle
undulations. Where it was smoothest, it reflected the Barn and all the
surrounding lights. Yet now (like the shining tin of a roof-top) it
resounded--to a foot-fall!

"Some one's coming!" announced the Piper.

_Buzz-z-z-z!_

It was a low, angry droning.

The next moment a figure came into sight at a corner of the Barn. It was
a slender, girlish figure, and it came hurrying forward along the
circular way with never a glance to right or left. Gwendolyn could see
that whoever the traveler was, her dress was plain and scant. Nor were
there ornaments shining in her pretty hair, which was unbound. She was
shod in dainty, high-heeled slippers. And now she walked as fast as she
could; again she broke into a run; but taking no note of the ruts and
rough places, continually stumbled.

"She's watching what's in her hand," said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.
"Contemplation, speculation, perlustration." And he sighed.

"She'll have a fine account to settle with me,"--this the Piper again.
He whipped out his note-book. "That's what _I_ call a merry dance."

"See what she's carrying," advised the Bird. In one hand the figure held
a small dark something.

Gwendolyn looked. "Why,--why," she began hesitatingly, "isn't it a
_bonnet?_"

A bonnet it was--a plain, cheap-looking piece of millinery.

_BUZZ-Z-Z-Z-Z!_

The drone grew loud. The figure caught the bonnet close to her face and
held it there, turning it about anxiously. Her eyes were eager. Her lips
wore a proud smile.

It was then that Gwendolyn recognized her. And leaned forward, holding
out her arms. "Moth-er!" she plead. "_Mother!_"

Her mother did not hear. Or, if she heard, did not so much as lift her
eyes from the bonnet. She tripped, regained her balance, and rushed
past, hair wind-tossed, dress fluttering. At either side of her, smoke
curled away like silk veiling blown out by the swift pace.

"Oh, she's burning!" cried Gwendolyn, in a panic of sudden distress.

The Doctor bent down. "That's money," he explained; "--burning her
pockets."

"She can't see anything but the bee. She can't hear anything but the
bee." It was Gwendolyn's father, murmuring to himself.

"_The bee!_"

Now the Bird came bouncing to Gwendolyn's side. "You've read that bees
are busy little things, haven't you?" he asked. "Well, this particular
so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect--"

"That's the very one!" she declared excitedly.

"--Is no exception."

"We must get it away from her," declared Gwendolyn. "Oh, how _tired_ her
poor feet must be!" (As she said it, she was conscious of the burning
ache of her own feet; and yet the tears that swam in her eyes were tears
of sympathy, not of pain.) "Puffy! Won't you eat it?"

Puffy blinked as if embarrassed. "Well, you see, a bee--er--makes
honey," he began lamely.

The figure had turned a corner of the Barn. Now, on the farther side of
the great structure, it was flitting past the openings.

Gwendolyn rested a hand on the wing of the Bird. "Won't _you_ eat it?"
she questioned.

The Bird wagged his bumpy head. "It's against all the laws of this
Land," he declared.

"But this is a _society_ bee."

"A bird isn't even allowed to eat a bad bee. But"--chirping low--"I'll
tell you what _can_ be tried."

"Yes?"

"_Ask your mother to trade her bonnet for the Piper's poke_."

Gwendolyn stared at him for a moment. Then she understood. "The poke's
prettier," she declared. "Oh, if she only would! Piper!"

The Piper swaggered up. "Some collecting on hand?" he asked. Swinging
as usual from a shoulder was the poke.

Gwendolyn thought she had never seen a prettier one. Its ribbon bows
were fresh and smart; its lace was snow-white and neatly frilled.

"Oh, I _know_ she'll make the trade!" she exclaimed happily.

The Piper considered the matter, pursing his lips around the pipe-stem
in his mouth; standing on one foot.

Gwendolyn appealed to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Maybe moth-er'll have to
have her ears sharpened," she suggested.

The little old gentleman shook his shaggy head. "_Don't let her hear
that pig!_" he warned darkly.

"She'll come round in another moment!" It was the Doctor, voice very
cheery.

At that, the Piper unslung the poke and advanced to the edge of the
road. "I've never wanted this crazy poke," he asserted over a shoulder
to Gwendolyn. "Now, I'll just get rid of it. And I'll present that
bonnet with the bee" (here he laughed harshly) "to a woman that hasn't
footed a single one of my bills. Ha! ha!"

_Buzz-z-z-z!_

Again that high, strident note. Gwendolyn's mother was circling into
sight once more. Fortunately, she was keeping close to the outer edge of
the road. The Piper faced in the direction she was speeding, and
prepared to race beside her.

_BUZZ-Z-Z-Z!_

It was an exciting moment! She was holding out the bonnet as before. He
thrust the poke between her face and it, carefully keeping the lace and
the bows in front of her very eyes.

"Madam!" he shouted. "Trade!"

"Moth-er!"

Her mother heard. Her look fell upon the poke. She slowed to a walk.

"_Trade!_" shouted the Piper again, dangling the poke temptingly.

She stopped short, gazing hard at the poke. "Trade?" she repeated
coldly. (Her voice sounded as if from a great distance.) "Trade? Well,
that depends upon what They say."

Then she circled on--at such a terrible rate that the Piper could not
keep pace. He ceased running and fell behind, breathing hard and
complaining ill-temperedly.

"Oh! Oh!" mourned Gwendolyn. The smoke blown back from that fleeing
figure smarted her throat and eyes. She raised an arm to shield her
face. Disappointed, and feeling a first touch of weariness, she could
not choke back a great sob that shook her convulsively.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, whiskers buried in his ragged collar, was
nodding thoughtfully "By and by," he murmured; "--by and by, presently,
later on."

The Doctor was even more comforting. "There! There!" he said. "Don't
cry."

"But, oh," breathed Gwendolyn, her bosom heaving, "why don't you feel
_her_ pulse?"

"It's--it's terrible," faltered Gwendolyn's father. His agonized look
was fixed upon the road.

Now the road was indeed terrible. For there were great chasms in
it--chasms that yawned darkly; that opened and closed as if by the rush
and receding of water. Gwendolyn's mother crossed them in flitting
leaps, as from one roof-top to another. Her daintily shod feet scarcely
touched the road, so swift was her going. A second, and she was whipped
from sight at the Barn's corner. About her slender figure, as it
disappeared, dust mingled with the smoke--mingled and swirled,
funnel-like in shape, with a wide base and a narrow top, like the
picture of a water-spout in the back of Gwendolyn's geography.

The Piper came back, wiping his forehead. "What does she care about a
poke!" he scolded, flinging himself down irritably. "Huh! All she thinks
about is what They say!"

At that Gwendolyn's spirits revived. Somehow, instantly and clearly, she
knew what should be done!

But when she opened her mouth, she found that she could not speak. Her
lips were dry. Her tongue would not move. She could only swallow.

Then, just as she was on the point of throwing herself down and giving
way utterly to tears, she felt a touch on her hand--a furry touch. Next,
something was slipped into her grasp. It was the lip-case!

"Well, Mr. Piper," she cried out, "what _do_ They say?"

They were close by, standing side by side, gazing at nothing. For their
eyes were wide open, their faces expression-less.

Gwendolyn's father addressed them. "I never asked my wife to drop that
sort of thing," he said gravely, "--for Gwendolyn's sake. _You_ might, I
suppose." One hand was in his pocket.

The two pairs of wide-open eyes blinked once. The two mouths spoke in
unison: "Money talks."

Gwendolyn's father drew his hand from his pocket. It was filled with
bills. "Will these--?" he began.

It was the Piper who snatched the money out of his hand and handed it to
They. And thinking it over afterward, Gwendolyn felt deep gratitude for
the promptness with which They acted. For having received the money,
They advanced into that terrible road, faced half-about, and halted.

The angry song of the bee was faint then. For the slender figure was
speeding past those patches of light that could be seen through the
girders of the Barn. But soon the buzzing grew louder--as Gwendolyn's
mother came into sight, shrouded, and scarcely discernible.

They met her as she came on, blocking her way. And, "Madam!" They
shouted. "Trade your bonnet for the Piper's poke!"

Gwendolyn held her breath.

Her mother halted. Now for the first time she lifted her eyes and looked
about--as if dazed and miserable. There was a flush on each smooth
cheek. She was panting so that her lips quivered.

The Piper rose and hurried forward. And seeing him, half-timidly she
reached out a hand--a slender, white hand. Quickly he relinquished the
poke, but when she took it, made a cup of his two hands under it, as if
he feared she might let it fall. The poke was heavier than the bonnet.
She held it low, but looked at it intently, smiling a little.

Presently, without even a parting glance, she held the bonnet out to
him. "Take it away," she commanded. "It isn't becoming."

He received it; and promptly made off along the road, the bonnet held up
before his face. "When it comes to chargin'," he called back, with an
independent jerk of the head, "I'm the only chap that can keep ahead of
a chauffeur." And he laughed uproariously.

Gwendolyn's mother now began to admire the poke, turning it around, at
the same time tilting her head to one side,--this very like the Bird!
She fingered the lace, and picked at the ribbon. Then, having viewed it
from every angle, she opened it--as if to put it on.

There was a bounce and a piercing squeal. Then over the rim of the poke,
with a thump as it hit the roadway, shot a small black-and-white pig.

She dropped the poke and sprang back, frightened. And as the porker cut
away among the trees, she wheeled, caught sight of Gwendolyn, and
suddenly opened her arms.

With a cry, Gwendolyn flung herself forward. No need now to fear
harming an elegant dress, or roughing carefully arranged hair.
"Moth-er!" She clasped her mother's neck, pressing a wet cheek against a
cheek of satin.

"Oh, my baby! My baby!--Look at mother!"

"I _am_ looking at you," answered Gwendolyn, half sobbing and half
laughing. "I've looked at you for a _long_ time. 'Cause I _love_ you so
I love you!"

The next moment the Man-Who-Makes-Faces dashed suddenly aside--to a
nearby flower-bordered square of packed ground over which, blazing with
lights, hung one huge tree. Under the tree was a high, broad bill-board,
a squat stool, and two short-legged tables. The little old gentleman
began to bang his furniture about excitedly.

"The tables are turned!" he shouted. "The tables are turned!"

"Of course the tables are turned," said Gwendolyn; "but what
diff'rence'll _that_ make?"

"Difference?" he repeated, tearing back; "it means that from now on
everything's going to be exactly _opposite_ to what it has been."

"Oo! Goody!" Then lifting a puzzled face. "But why didn't you turn the
tables at first? And why didn't we stay here? My moth-er was here all
the time. And--"

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces regarded her solemnly. "Suppose we hadn't gone
around," he said. "Just suppose." Before her, in a line, were They, the
Doctor, the Policeman, Puffy and the Bird. He indicated them by a nod.

She nodded too, comprehending.

"But now," went on the little old gentleman, "we must all
absquatulate." He took her hand.

"Oh, must you?" she asked regretfully. Absquatulate was a big word, but
she understood it, having come across it one day in the Dictionary.

"Good-by." He leaned down. And she saw that his round black eyes were
clouded, while his square brush-like brows were working with the effort
of keeping back his tears. "Good-by!" He stepped back out of the waiting
line, turned, and made off slowly, turning the crank of the hand-organ
as he went.

Now the voices of They spoke up. "We also bid you good-night," They said
politely. "We shall have to go. People must hear about this." And
shoulder to shoulder They wheeled and followed the little old gentleman.

"But my Puffy!" said Gwendolyn. "I'd like to keep him. I don't care if
he is shabby."

For answer there was a crackling and crashing in the underbrush, as if
some heavy-footed animal were lumbering away.

"I think," explained her father, "that he's gone to make some poor
little boy very happy."

"Oh, the Rich Little Poor Boy, I guess," said Gwendolyn, contented.

The Bird was just in front of her. He looked very handsome and bright as
he flirted his rudder saucily, and darted, now up, now down. Presently,
he began to sing--a glad, clear song. And singing, rose into the air.

"Oh!" she breathed. "He's happy 'cause he got that salt off his tail."
When she looked again at the line, the Policeman was nowhere to be
seen. "Doctor!"

"Yes."

"Don't _you_ go."

"The Doctor is right here," said her mother, soothingly.

Gwendolyn smiled. And put one hand in the clasp of her mother's, the
other in a bigger grasp.

"Tired out--all tired out," murmured her father.

She was sleepy, too--almost past the keeping open of her gray eyes.
"Long as you both are with me," she whispered, "I wouldn't mind if I was
back in the nursery."

The glow that filled the Land now seemed suddenly to soften. The
clustered tapers had lessened--to a single chandelier of four globes.
Next, the forest trees began to flatten, and take on the appearance of
a conventional pattern. The grass became rug-like in smoothness. The sky
squared itself to the proportions of a ceiling.

There was no mistaking the change at hand!

"We're getting close!" she announced happily.

The rose-colored light was dim, peaceful. Here and there through it she
caught glints of white and gold. Then familiar objects took shape. She
made out the pier-glass; flanking it, her writing-desk, upon which were
the two silver-framed portraits. And there--between the portraits--was
the flower-embossed calendar, with pencil-marks checking off each figure
in the lines that led up to her birthday.

She sighed--a deep, tremulous sigh of content.




CHAPTER XVI


She moved her head from side to side slowly. And felt the cool touch of
the pillow against either cheek. Then she tried to lift her arms; but
found that one hand was still in a big grasp, the other in a clasp that
was softer.

Little by little, and with effort, she opened her gray eyes. In the
dimness she could see, to her left, scarcely more than an outline of a
dark-clad figure, stooped and watchful; of that other slender figure
opposite. After all the fatigue and worry of the night, her father and
mother were with her yet! And someone was standing at the foot of her
bed, leaning and looking down at her. That was the Doctor.

She lay very still. This was a novel experience, this having both
father and mother in the nursery at the same time--and plainly in no
haste to depart! The heaviness of deep sleep was gradually leaving her.
Yet she forbore to speak; and as each moment went she dreaded the
passing of it, lest her wonderful new happiness come to an end.

Presently she ventured a look around--at the pink-tinted ceiling, with
its cluster of full-blown plaster roses out of which branched the
chandelier; at the walls of soft rose, met here and there by the deeper
rose of the brocade hangings; at the plushy rug, the piano, the large
table--now scattered with an unusual assortment of bottles and glasses;
at the dresser, crystal-topped and strewn daintily, the deep upholstered
chair, and the long cushioned seat across the front window, over which,
strangely enough, no dome-topped cage was swinging.

And there was the tall toy-case. The shelves of it were unchanged. On
that one below the line of prettily clad dolls were the toys she favored
most--the black-and-red top, the handsome soldier in the scarlet coat,
the jointed snake beside its pipe-like box, and the somersault man,
poised heels over head. Beyond these, ranged in a buff row, were the six
small ducks acquired at Easter. She gave each plaything a keen glance.
They reminded her vividly of the long busy night just past!

Her small nose wrinkled in a quizzical smile.

At that the three waiting figures stirred.

Her look came back to them, to rest first upon her father's face, noting
how long and pale and haggard it was, how sunken the temples, how
bloodless the tightly pressed lips, how hollow the unshaven cheeks. When
she turned to gaze at her mother, as daintily clad as ever, and as
delicately perfumed--showing no evidence of dusty travel--she saw how
pitifully pale was that dear beautiful face. But the eyes were no longer
proud!--only anxious, tender and purple-shadowed.

Next, Gwendolyn lifted her eyes to the Doctor, and felt suddenly
conscience-stricken, remembering how she had always dreaded him, had
taken the mere thought of his coming as punishment; remembering, too,
how helpful and kind he had been to her through the night.

He began to speak, low and earnestly, and as if continuing something
already half said:

"Pardon my bluntness, but it's a bad thing when there's too much money
spent on forcing the brain before the body is given a chance--or the
soul. Does a child get food that is simple and nourishing, and enough of
it? Is all exercise taken in the open? Too often, I find, where there's
a motor at the beck and call of a nurse, the child in her charge is
utterly cut off--and in the period of quickest growth--from a normal
supply of plain walking. Every boy and girl has a right" (his voice
deepened with feeling) "to the great world out of doors. Let the warm
sun, and the fresh air, and God's good earth--"

Gwendolyn moved. "Is--is he praying?" she whispered.

There was a moment of silence. Then, "No, daughter," answered her
father, while her mother leaned to lay a gentle hand on her forehead.
The Doctor went aside to the larger table and busied himself with some
bottles. When he came back, her father lifted her head a trifle by
lifting the pillow--her mother rising quickly to assist--and the Doctor
put a glass to Gwendolyn's lips. She drank dutifully, and was lowered.

At once she felt stronger. "Is the sun up?" she asked. Her voice was
weak, and somewhat hoarse.

"Would you like to see the sky?" asked her father. And without waiting
for her eager nod, crossed to the front window and drew aside the heavy
silk hangings.

Serenely blue was the long rectangle framed by curtains and casing.
Across it not a single fat sheep was straying.

"Moth-er!"

"Yes, darling?"

"Is--is always the same piece of Heaven right there through the window?"

"No. The earth is turning all the time--just as your globe in the
school-room turns. And so each moment you see a new square of sky."

The Doctor nodded with satisfaction. "Um! Better, aren't we?" he
inquired, smiling down.

She returned the smile. "Well, _I_ am," she declared. "But--I didn't
know you felt bad."

He laughed. "Tell me something," he went on. "I sent a bottle of
medicine here yesterday."

"Yes. It was a little bottle."

"How much of it did Jane give you? Can you remember?"

"Well, first she poured out one teaspoonful--"

The Doctor had been leaning again on the foot of the white-and-gold bed.
Now he fell back of a sudden. "A _teaspoonful!_" he gasped. And to
Gwendolyn's father, "Why, that wretched girl didn't read the directions
on the bottle!"

There was another silence. The two men stared at each other. But
Gwendolyn's mother, her face paler than before, bent above the yellow
head on the pillow.

"After I drank _that_ teaspoonful," went on Gwendolyn, "Jane wouldn't
believe me. And so she made me take the other."

"_Another!_"--it was the Doctor once more. He pressed a trembling hand
to his forehead.

Her father rose angrily. "She shall be punished," he declared. And began
to walk to and fro. "I won't let this pass."

Gwendolyn's look followed him tenderly. "Well, you see, she didn't know
about--about nursery work," she explained. "'Cause before she came here
she was just a cook."

"Oh, my baby daughter!" murmured Gwendolyn's mother, brokenly. She bent
forward until her face was hidden against the silken cover of the bed.
"Mother didn't know you were being neglected! She thought she was giving
you the _best_ of care, dear!"

"Two spoonfuls!" said the Doctor, grimly. "That explains everything!"

"Oh, but I didn't want to take the last one," protested Gwendolyn,
hastily, "--though it tasted good. She made me. She said if I didn't--"

"So!" exclaimed the Doctor, interrupting. "She frightened the poor
little helpless thing in order to get obedience!"

"Gwendolyn!" whispered her mother. "She _frightened_ you?"

The gray eyes smiled wisely. "It doesn't matter now," she said, a hint
of triumph in her voice. "I've found out that P'licemen are nice. And
so are--are Doctors"--she dimpled and nodded. "And all the bears in the
world that are outside of cages are just Puffy Bears grown up." Then
uncertainly, "But I didn't find out about--the other."

"What other?" asked her father, pausing in his walk.

The gray eyes were diamond-bright now. "Though I don't _really_ believe
it," she hastened to add. "But--_do_ wicked men keep watch of this
house."

"_Wicked men?_" Her mother suddenly straightened.

"Kidnapers."

This innocent statement had an unexpected effect. Again her father began
to stride up and down angrily, while her mother, head drooping once
more, began to weep.

"Oh, mother didn't know!" she sobbed. "Mother didn't guess what
terrible things were happening! Oh, forgive her! Forgive her!"

The Doctor came to her side. "Too much excitement for the patient," he
reminded her. "Don't you think you'd better go and lie down for a while,
and have a little rest?"

A startled look. And Gwendolyn put out a staying hand to her mother.
Then--"Moth-er _is_ tired," she assented. "She's tireder than I am.
'Cause it was hard work going round and round Robin Hood's Barn."

The Doctor hunted a small wrist and felt the pulse in it. "That's all
right," he said to her mother in an undertone. "Everything's still
pretty real to her, you see. But her pulse is normal," He laid cool
fingers across her forehead. "Temperature's almost normal too."

Gwendolyn felt that she had not made herself altogether clear. She
hastened to explain. "I mean," she said, "when moth-er was carrying that
society bee in her bonnet."

Confusion showed in the Doctor's quick glance from parent to parent.
Then, "I think I'll just drop down into the pantry," he said hastily,
"and see how that young nurse from over yonder is getting along." He
jerked a thumb in the direction of the side window as he went out.

Gwendolyn wondered just who the young nurse was. She opened her lips to
ask; then saw how painfully her mother had colored at the mere mention
of the person in question, and so kept silence.

The Doctor gone, her father came to her mother's side and patted a
shoulder. "Well, we shan't ever say anything more about that bee," he
declared, laughing, yet serious enough. "_Shall_ we, Gwendolyn!"

"No." She blinked, puzzling over it a little.

"There! It's settled." He bent and kissed his wife. "You thought you
were doing the best thing for our little girl--_I_ know that, dear. You
had her future in mind. And it's natural--and _right_--for a mother to
think of making friends--the right kind, too--and a place in the social
world for her daughter. And I've been short-sighted, and neglectful,
and--"

"Ah!" She raised wet eyes to him. "You had your worries. You were doing
_more_ than your share. You had to meet the question of money. While
I--"

He interrupted her. "We _both_ thought we were doing our very best," he
declared.

"We almost did our worst! Oh, what would it all have amounted to--what
would _anything_ have mattered--if we'd lost our little girl!"

The pink came rushing to Gwendolyn's cheeks. "Why, I wasn't lost at
all!" she declared happily. "And, oh, it was so good to have my
questions all answered, and understand so many things I didn't once--and
to be where all the put-out lights go, and--and where soda-water comes
from. And I was _so_ glad to get rid of Thomas and Jane and Miss Royle,
and--"

The hall-door opened. She checked herself to look that way. Someone was
entering with a tray. It was a maid--_a maid wearing a sugar-bowl cap_.

Gwendolyn knew her instantly--that pretty face, as full and rosy as the
face of the French doll, and framed by saucy wisps and curls as fair as
Gwendolyn's own--and freckleless!

"Oh!" It was a low cry of delight.

The nurse smiled. She had a tray in one hand. On the tray was a blue
bowl of something steaming hot. She set the tray down and came to the
bed-side.

Gwendolyn's eyes were wide with wonder. "How--how--?" she began.

Her mother answered. "Jane called down to the Policeman, and he ran to
the house on the corner."

Now the dimples sprang into place, "Goody!" exclaimed Gwendolyn, and
gave a little chuckle.

Her mother went on: "We never can feel grateful enough to her, because
she was such a help. And we're so glad you're friends already."

Gwendolyn nodded. "She's one of my window-friends," she explained.

"I'm going to stay with you," said the nurse. She smoothed Gwendolyn's
hair fondly. "Will you like that?"

"It's fine! I--I wanted you!"

The Doctor re-entered. "Well, how does our sharp little patient feel
now?" he inquired.

"I feel hungry."

"I have some broth for you," announced the pretty nurse, and brought
forward the tray.

Gwendolyn looked down at the bowl. "M-m-m!" she breathed. "It smells
good! Now"--to the Doctor--"if I had one of your nice bread-pills--"

At that, curiously enough, everyone laughed, the Doctor heartiest of
all. And "Hush!" chided her mother gently while the Doctor shook a
teasing finger.

"Just for that," said he, "we'll have eating--and _no_ conversation--for
five whole minutes." Whereupon he began to scribble on a pad, laughing
to himself every now and then as he wrote.

"That must be a cheerful prescription," observed Gwendolyn's father. He
himself looking happier than he had.

"The country," answered the Doctor, "is always cheerful."

Gwendolyn's spoon slipped from her fingers. She lifted eager, shining
eyes. "Moth-er," she half-whispered, "does the Doctor mean _Johnnie
Blake's?_"

The Doctor assented energetically. "I _prescribe_ Johnnie Blake's," he
declared.

"A-a-ah!" It was a deep breath of happiness. "I _promised_ Johnnie that
I'd come back!"

"But if my little daughter isn't strong--" Her father gave a sidewise
glance at the steaming bowl on the tray.

Thus prompted, Gwendolyn fell to eating once more, turning her
attention to the _croutons_ bobbing about on the broth Each was square
and crunchy, but not so brown as a bread-pill.

"I shall now read my Johnnie Blake prescription," announced the Doctor,
and held up a leaf from the pad. "Hm! Hm!" Then, in a business-like
tone; "_Take two pairs of sandals, a dozen cheap gingham dresses with
plenty of pockets and extra pieces for patches, and a bottle of
something good for wild black-berry scratches_." He bowed. "_Mix all
together with one strong medium-sized garden-hoe_--"

"Oh, fath-er," cried Gwendolyn, her hoarse voice wistful with pleading,
"_you_ won't mind if I play with Johnnie, _will_ you?"

"Play all the time," answered her father. "Play hard--and then play
some more."

"He _isn't_ a common little boy." Whereupon, satisfied, she returned to
the blue bowl.

"And now," went on the Doctor, "as to directions." He held up other
leaves from the pad. "First week (you'll have to go easy the first
week), use the prescription each day as follows; When driving; also when
lying on back watching birds in trees (and have a nap out of doors if
you feel like it); also when lighting the fire at sundown. Nurse, here,
will watch out for fingers."

At that, another pleased little chuckle.

"Second week:" (the Doctor coughed, importantly) "When riding your own
fat pony, or chasing butterflies--assisted by one good-natured, common,
ordinary, long-haired dog; or when fishing (stream or bath-tub, it
doesn't matter!) or carrying kindling in to Cook--whether you're tired
or not!"

"I _love_ it!"

"Third week: When baking mudpies, or gathering ferns (but put 'em in
water when you get home); when jaunting in old wagon to hay-field,
orchard or vegetable-patch--this includes tomboy yelling. And go
barefoot."

Gwendolyn's spoon, _crouton_-laden, wabbled in mid-air. "Go _barefoot?_"
she repeated, small face flushing to a pleased pink. "Right _away?_
Before I'm eight?"

"Um!" assented the Doctor. "And shin up trees (but don't disturb eggs if
you find 'em). Also do barefoot gardening,--where there isn't a plant to
hurt! _And wade the creek_."

Again the dimples came rushing to their places. "I like squashing," she
declared, smiling round.

"Then isn't there a hill to climb?" continued the Doctor, "with your hat
down your back on a string? And stones to roll--?"

The small face grew suddenly serious. "No, thank you," she said, with a
slow shake of the head, "I'd rather not turn any stones."

"Very well--hm! hm!"

"Oh, and there'll be jolly times of an evening after supper," broke in
her father, enthusiastically. The stern lines of his face were relaxed,
and a score of tiny ripples were carrying a smile from his mouth to his
tired eyes. "We'll light all the candles--"

"Daddy!" She relinquished the bowl, and turned to him swiftly. "Not--not
candles that burn at both ends--"

"No." He stopped smiling.

"You're a wise little body!" pronounced the Doctor, taking her hand.

"How's the pulse now?" asked her mother. "Somehow"--with a nervous
little laugh--"she makes me anxious."

"Normal," answered the Doctor promptly. "Only thing that isn't normal
about her is that busy brain, which is abnormally bright." Thereupon he
shook the small hand he was holding, strode to the table, and picked up
a leather-covered case. It was black, and held a number of bottles. In
no way did it resemble the pill-basket. "And if a certain person is to
leave for the country soon--"

Gwendolyn's smile was knowing. "You mean 'a certain party.'" He was
trying to tease her with that old nursery name!

"--She'd better rest. Good-by." And with that mild advice, he beckoned
the nurse to follow him, whispered with her a moment at the door, and
was gone.

Gwendolyn's father resumed his place beside the bed. "She _can_ rest,"
he declared, "--the blessed baby! Not a governess or a teacher is to
show as much as a hat-feather."

She nodded. "We don't want 'em quacking around."

Someone tapped at the door then, and entered--Rosa, bearing a card-tray
upon which were two square bits of pasteboard. "To see Madam," she said,
presenting the tray. After which she showed her white teeth in greeting
to Gwendolyn, then stooped, and touched an open palm with her lips.

Gwendolyn's mother read the cards, and shook her head. "Tell the
ladies--explain that I can't leave my little daughter even for a moment
to-day--"

"Oh, yes, Madam."

"And that we're leaving for the country _very_ soon."

Rosa bobbed her dark head as she backed away.

"And, Rosa--"

"Yes, Madam?"

"You know what I need in the country--where we were before."

A bow.

"Pack, Rosa. And you will go, of course."

"And Potter, Madam?"

"Potter, too. You'll have to pack a few things up here also." A white
hand indicated the wardrobe door.

"Very well, Madam."

As the door closed, the telephone rang. Gwendolyn's father rose to
answer it. "I think it's the office, dear," he explained; and into the
transmitter--"Yes?... Hello?... Yes. Good-morning!... Oh, thanks! She's
better.... And by the way, just close out that line of stocks. Yes.... I
shan't be back in the office for some time. I'm leaving for the country
as soon as Gwendolyn can stand the trip. To-morrow, maybe, or the next
day.... No; don't go into the market until I come back. I intend to
reconstruct my policy a good deal. Yes.... Oh, yes.... Good-by."

He went to the front window. And as he stood in the light, Gwendolyn lay
and looked at him. He had worn green the night before. But now there was
not a vestige of paper money showing anywhere in his dress. In fact, he
was wearing the suit--a dark blue--he had worn that night she penetrated
to the library.

"Fath-er."

"Well, little daughter?"

"I was wondering has anybody scribbled on the General's horse?--with
chalk?"

Her father looked down at the Drive. "The General's there!" he
announced, glancing back at her over a shoulder. "And his horse seems in
_fine_ fettle this morning, prancing, and arching his neck. And nobody's
scribbled on him, which seems to please the General very much, for he's
got his hat off--"

Gwendolyn sat up, her eyes rounding. "To hundreds and hundreds of
soldiers!" she told her mother. "Only everybody can't see the soldiers."

Her father came back to her. "_I_ can," he declared proudly. "Do you
want to see 'em, too?--just a glimpse, mother! Come! We'll play the game
together!" And the next moment, silk coverlet and all, Gwendolyn was
swung up in his arms and borne to the window-seat.

"And, oh, there's the P'liceman!" she cried out.

"His name is Flynn," informed her father. "And _twice_ this morning he's
asked after you."

"Oh!" she stood up among the cushions to get a better view. "He takes
lost little boys and girls to their fath-ers and moth-ers, daddy, and he
takes care of the trees, and the flowers, and the fountains, and--- and
the ob'lisk. But he only likes it up here in summer. In winter he likes
to be Down-Town. And he _ought_ to be Down-Town, 'cause he's got a
_really_ level head--"

"Wave to him now," said her father. "There! He's swinging his
cap!--When we're out walking one of these times we'll stop and shake
hands with him!"

"With the hand-organ man, too, fath-er? Oh, you like him, _don't_ you?
And you won't send him away!"

"Father won't."

He laid her back among the pillows then. And she turned her face to her
mother.

"Can't you sleep, darling?--And don't dream!"

"Well, I'm pretty tired."

"We know what a hard long night it was."

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad we're going back to Johnnie Blake's, moth-er. 'Cause,
oh, I'm tired of pretending!"

"Of pretending," said her father. "Ah, yes."

Her mother nodded at him. "I'm tired of pretending, too," she said in a
low voice.

Gwendolyn looked pleased. "I didn't know you ever pretended," she said.
"Well, of course, you know that _real_ things are so much nicer--"

"Ah, yes, my little girl!" It was her father. His voice trembled.

"Real grass,"--she smiled up at him--"and real trees, and real people."
After that, for a while, she gave herself over to thinking. How
wonderful that one single night could bring about the changes for which
she had so longed!--the living in the country; the eating at the
grown-up table, and having no governess.

One full busy night had done all that! And yet--

She glanced down at herself. Under her pink chin was the lace and ribbon
of a night-dress. She could not remember being put to bed--could not
even recall coming up in the bronze cage. And was the plaid gingham with
the patch-pocket now hanging in the wardrobe? Brows knit, she slipped
one small foot sidewise until it was close to the edge of the
bed-covers, then of a sudden thrust it out from beneath them. The foot
was as white as if it had only just been bathed! Not a sign did it show
of having waded any stream, pattered through mud, or trudged a forest
road!

Presently, "Moth-er,"--sleepily.

"Yes, darling?"

"_Who_ are Law and Order?"

A moment's silence. Then, "Well--er--"

"Isn't it a fath-er-and-moth-er question?"

"Why, _yes_, my baby. But I--"

"Father will tell you, dear." He was seated beside her once more. "You
see it's this way:"

"Can you tell it like a story, fath-er?"

"Yes."

"A once-upon-a-time story?"

"I'll try. But first you must understand that law and order are not two
people. Oh, no. And they aren't anything a little girl could see--as she
can see the mirror, for instance, or a chair--"

Gwendolyn looked at the mirror and the chair--thence around the room.
These were the same things that had been there all the time. Now how
different each appeared! There was the bed, for instance. She had never
liked the bed, beautiful though it was. Yet to-day, even with the sun
shining on the great panes of the wide front window, it seemed good to
be lying in it. And the nursery, once a hated place--a very
prison!--the nursery had never looked lovelier!

Her father went on with his explaining, low and cheerily, and as
confidentially as if to a grown-up. Across from him, listening, was her
mother, one soft cheek lowered to rest close to the small face
half-hidden in the pillow.

When her father finished speaking, Gwendolyn gave a deep breath--of
happiness and content. Then, "Moth-er!"

"Yes?"--with a kiss as light as the touch of a butterfly.

Her eyelids, all at once, seemed curiously heavy. She let them flutter
down. But a drowsy smile curved the pink mouth. "Moth-er," she
whispered; "moth-er, the Dearest Pretend has come true!"





End of Project Gutenberg's The Poor Little Rich Girl, by Eleanor Gates