 CHAPTER 1. Halfway up the shining surface of the gilt-framed pure glass was a mark, a tiny inkline 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. She breathed the gas, 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 witt 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 cushion 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 Royal 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 Quindolin changed her dressing gown for a writing 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 writing school her master gave her the customary lesson. She circled the tan bark on her fat brown pony, now to the ride at a walk, now to the left at a trot, now back to the ride 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 knew 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 it 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 west cut. Now he wore his 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 telling her when she comes that I'm out taking 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 writing hat lay among the dainty pink and white articles on her crystal-top 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. Most ways, not without Miss Royal or Jane's 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 travelling 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 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 cheaped. Now and then, with a wild beating of his pinions, he sprang sideways to the shining bars of the cage and hung their 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 Royal's voice. Gwendolyn did not speak, but she lowered the handkerchief of a trifle, and noted that the governess was dressed for going out, in a glistening black silk plentifully ornamented with jet paillettes. Miss Royal 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 Royal 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 am 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 handbag, and rubbed it across her forehead. For my neuralgia is much worse today! She coughed once or twice behind a lil' gloved hand, snapped the clasp of her handbag, 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 lunge out, went on Miss Royal. But you won't mind, will you, dear Gwendolyn? Blaintively. For I'll be back at tea-time. And besides, growing brighter, you're to have—what do you think? The birthday cake cook is made. I hate cake! Burst out Gwendolyn, and covered her eyes once more. Gwendolyn! breathed Miss Royal. 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. 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 Royal. Taller and stocky, with broad shoulders and big arms. As she halted against the open school-room door, her hair was as ready 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 going out, she began angrily, addressing the governess. Miss Royal 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 Royal'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. Gwyndolin listening contemplated her governess thoughtfully. She had often heard her pronounced a snake in the grass. Miss Royal 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 Gwyndolin when there are no lessons, reminded Miss Royal, but weakening noticeably. On weak days, shrilled Jane. Oh, don't try to fool me with any of your scheming. I see, and I just laugh in my sleeve. Gwyndolin fixed inquiring gray eyes upon that sleeve of Jane's dress, which was the nearer. It was of black satine. It fitted the stout arms sleekly. This is the dear child's birthday, and I wish her to have the afternoon free. Ah, then why don't you take her out with you? You like the automobile nice enough, this sneeringly. Miss Royal 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 today was her birthday? You might have told me about it. Instead, just all of a sudden, you shove her off on my hands. Gwyndolin's eyes narrowed resentfully. Miss Royal gave a quick look toward the window-seat. You mean you've made plans, she asked, concerned, 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 tomorrow afternoon, declared Miss Royal soothingly. Is that fair? I didn't know you'd counted on to-day, so— After another glance shot window-word, then she beckoned Jane. They went into the hall, and Gwyndolin heard them whispering together. When Jane came back into the nursery, she looked almost cheerful. Now off with that habit, she called to Gwyndolin briskly, and into something for your dinner. I want to wear a plaid dress, announced Gwyndolin, getting down from her seat slowly. Jane was selecting a white muslin from a tall wardrobe. Little girls ain't wearing plaids this year, she declared shortly. Come. Well, then, I want a dress that's got a pocket, went on Gwyndolin. A pocket way down on this side. She touched the right skirt of her writing-coat. They ain't makin' pockets a little girl's dresses this year, said Jane. Come, come! They repeated Gwyndolin. Who are they? I'd like to know. As I could telephone them and— Hush, your nonsense, Bade Jane! Then catching at the delicate square of Lennon in Gwyndolin's hand— How'd you get ink smeared over your handkerchief? What do you suppose your momma'd say if she was to come upon it? I'd be blamed, as usual. Who are they? persisted Gwyndolin. They do so many things, and I want to tell them that I like pockets in all my dresses. Jane ignored the question. Yesterday you said they would send a soda water, went on Gwyndolin, 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 Royal, to Thomas, to her music teacher Miss Brown, to Mademoiselle Dubois, 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 Gwyndolin caught sight of her unshawed 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. Gwyndolin wriggled her ten pink toes. May I, Jane? You can go barefoot to bed, said Jane. Gwyndolin's bed stood midway of the nursery, partly hidden by a high tapestry screen. It was a beautiful bed, carved and enameled, and paneled head and foot with woven cane. But to Gwyndolin 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 dawned, and a pink satin hair-bow replaced the black one that bobbed on Gwyndolin'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 noom dinner. He arranged the table with a jerk and a bang. "'So old Royal up and outed, did she?' he said to Jane. "'Hush!' counseled Jane significantly, and rolled her eyes in the direction of the window-seat. Gwyndolin 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?' Gwyndolin 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, least a ways, not like we'd counted on. And it's too exasperating. 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 Gwyndolin 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 Gwyndolin's turn to color. She got down quickly and came forward. "'Shh!' warned Thomas. He busied himself with laying the silver. Gwyndolin 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 talking about,' demanded Jane roughly. "'You dance, don't you, at Monsour-Telegans, of a Saturday afternoon? Well, so do I when I get an evening off, which isn't often, as you well know miss. "'Now your dinner's ready, so eat it, without any more clackin.' Gwyndolin climbed up on the plump, rounding seat of a white and gold chair. Jane settled down nearby, choosing an upholstered armchair, spacious, comfort-giving. She lulled in it at ease, but watchful. "'You can't think how that old butler spies on me,' said Thomas, addressing her. "'He's seen the tray when I put it on the dumb-waiter, and Miss Royal is having her lunch out,' he says. "'Then would you believe it? He took more than half my dishes away.' "'Jane giggled. Potters a sharp one,' she declared. "'But, oh, you should have been behind a door just now when you know who and I had a little understanding.' "'A' he inquired, working his black brows excitedly. How was that?' Gwyndolin went calmly on with her mutton broth. She already knew each detail of the forthcoming recital. "'Well,' began Jane. She played her usual trick of starting off without so much as a word to me, and I just up and give her a tongue-lashing.' Gwyndolin's spoon paused halfway 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-lashing,' 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 going 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 Gwyndolin earnestly. "'I wanted more, but Thomas held it way up, and—' "'Do you want to be sick?' demanded Jane. "'And have a doctor come?' Gwyndolin raised frighten' dies. A doctor had been called once in the dim past when she was a baby wracked 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—no,' she faltered. "'Well, you look out, or I'll get 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 saying. It's a pity there ain't some way to keep it hot.' "'A bit of cold foul don't go so bad,' said Thomas reassuringly. And to Gwyndolin—' "'Here's more of the potato souffles, miss Gwyndolin. Very tasty and filling.' Gwyndolin 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 mama herself would say that. Come. See that nice potatoes and cream gravy on your plate? And there you set crying.' 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 porter 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 Gwyndolin's hand away from her eyes. "'Isn't it a beautiful cake? You shall have a big piece!' Those seven small candles dispelled the gloom. With tears on her cheeks, but all eager and smiling once more, Gwyndolin 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 Gwyndolin, 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 bacon.' "'Perhaps all the little lights go up under the big lampshade,' went on Gwyndolin, 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!' Gwyndolin ate her slice daintily, using a fork. Jane also ate a slice, holding it in her fingers. "'There's ways of managing a fairly jolly afternoon,' she said, from the depths of the arm-chair. "'You're speaking of—err,' asked Thomas, picking up cake-crumbs with a damp fingertip. "'Aha!' "'A certain party would have to go along,' he reminded. "'Of course. But a ride's better than nothing. While I telephoned for—' Thomas brought a finger-bowl.' Gwyndolin 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 today,' Gwyndolin 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 a splash in water on the tablecloth. Look at you!' "'So,' went on Gwyndolin, "'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,' voiced Shrill with determination. Jane went to shake her frilled apron into the gilded waist basket beside Gwyndolin's writing desk. "'You can telephone any time now, Thomas,' she said calmly. Gwyndolin 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 Gwyndolin quailed. "'No!' 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 shells that stood opposite Gwyndolin'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 cue. Dolls from Japan and gaily-figured kimonos. Dutch dolls, a boy and a girl. A French doll and 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 pillbox 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 taking anything will 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 Gwyndolin, 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 Linenhamper. Like is 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 of Johnny Blake's in the country. I could scuff it with my shoes. You could scuff it, and I could wear myself out clean, and I suppose, retorted Jane. And like is not, run the risk of getting some bad germs on my hands and dying of them. From what Rosa says, it was downright shameful, the way you muddied your clothes and tore them, and messed in the water after nasty tadpoles 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 get 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 get to the next corner when somebody else 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 nobody steals the dogs. Here, the silly child, cried Jane, nobody steals the dogs. Why if anybody was to steal the dogs, what good would it do them? 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 unarial. Gwendolyn looked from one to the other. I haven't wanted to, continued Jane dofully. 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. For 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, nobody steals. You can see them running around loose everywhere. 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. Where at he fell to rubbing one open hand against the corner of the piano. Gwendolyn reflected a moment, then, But my father 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 Johnny Blake's cottage, we went fishing. And father 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, triumph Jane. I thought that 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, nodding and unnodding. I tell you, Jane launched forth again, that if you run about on the street, like poor children do, you will be grabbed up by a band of kidnappers. Are kidnappers worse than doctors? Asked Gwendolyn. Worse than doctors, scoffed Thomas. Heaps worse. Worse than bears? The last trace of that rebellious red was gone. Up and down went Jane's head solemnly. Kidnappers 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-button 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 policeman, she faltered. Policeman? Yes. Then the policeman that's always hanging around here? Now Jane giggled and blushes red as her hair. Ha, she chided. Thomas poked a teasing finger at her. Ha, ha, he laughed. There's other people that's noticed a policeman hanging round. He's a dandy, he is. Not. He let that old hand-organ man give him a black eye. Poo! 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 kidnappers do? she inquired. The kidnappers, 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 nothing of the kind happens, she declared stoutly. For who can get 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 get into the country a ways, we'll invite Thomas to take the inside seat opposite, another wink, and he'll tell you about soldier in India, and camps, and marches, and shooting elephants. Aren't there kidnappers in the country too? Ask Gwendolyn. I guess I'd rather stay home. You won't see them in the country this time of day, explained Jane. They're all in town, hunting rich little children. So on with that 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 Thomas walked along with us, she began, could anybody steal me then? Jane was taking out coat, hat, and gloves. What would kidnappers 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 Gypsies or Chinaman. But Gwendolyn persisted. Thomas has killed elephants, she reminded. Are kidnappers worse than elephants? She drew on her gloves. Jane sat down and held out the coat. It was a 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 going to traipse over the hard pavements on my poor tired feet just because you take your notions? Gwendolyn began to cry softly. Oh, I thought I wouldn't ever have to write again when I was seven, she faltered, putting one white-gloved hand to her eyes. Stop that, commanded Jane again. Dirty in your gloves, you wasteful little thing. Now the big sobs came down with the yellow head. Oh, oh, oh, oh, said Thomas. Little ladies never cry. Walk, walk, walk, scolding Jane, feeling and preparing to adjust the new hat. The hat had wide ribbons that tied under the chin, new stiff ribbons. Johnny Blake didn't fasten his hat on like this, wept Gwendolyn. She moved her chin from side to side. He just had a shoestring. Jane had finished. Johnny Blake, Johnny Blake, Johnny 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 an eye out, will you, to see that there's nobody laying and 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 bridal 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 wear on its pedestals to the great bronze war horse, its mane and tail flying, its neck arched, its lips curved to ney. Astrid the horse was her friend, the general, soldierly, valorous, his hat doft, 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 kidnappers about, was he a fit guardian for the front door? As Potter swung wide the heavy grill 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 knifemen suddenly catch sight of her and rushing over walk and bridal 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 window 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 back 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. End of chapter one. Chapter two of The Poor Little Rich Girl. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Susan Umpelby. The Poor Little Rich Girl by Eleanor Gates. Chapter two. The nursery was on the topmost floor of the Great Stone House, this for sunshine and air. But the sunshine was gone when Gwendolyn returned from her drive, and half a 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 in 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. Birth-day 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 curtain 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 bows. She clasped her hands. I want to live out in the woods, she said, at Johnny 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. Certainly not, said Thomas. And it'd give poor Miss Royal the neuralgia. Jane and Miss Royal might contend with each other. They made common cause against her. But none of you'd have to, assured Gwendolyn. When I was at Johnny Blake's that once, just Potter went, and Rosa, and cook. And Rosa buttoned my dresses and gave me my bath, and so Rosa will 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 tasting ones. Thomas gave her a significant stare. I tell you, a certain person is growing keen, he said in a low voice. Jane took Gwendolyn by the arm. Put all that Johnny Blake nonsense out of your head, she commanded. Folks that live in the woods don't know nothing. They're silly and pokey. Gwendolyn shook her head with deliberation. Johnny Blake wasn't pokey, she denied. He had a willow fish pole, and a string tied to it, and he caught shiny fishes on the end of the string. Johnny Blake, sniff 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, darling, softening, here we stand fussing, and you ain't even guessed what your presents are. Guess something that's real fine, something you'd like in the city, petty? 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 sun and 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 father and my mother, 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. All looked sharp, she promised, royal will too. Whereupon, with a force changed to gaiety, and a toss of the white cart 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 gaily, the Arabs crevetted, 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 have 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 Madame's present, he declared, and all 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 figure. 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 Father and Mother 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 manservant 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 occasion 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 Royal. 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 a suppertree, 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 Royal had not returned. Jane had disappeared toward her room, grumbling about never having a single evening to call her own. But at seven she 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 mole 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 suffrage just passed was only afternoon tea, and that there was waiting for her at the grown-up table in view of her newly acquired year in dignity, an empty chair. You'll see soon enough, answered Jane shortly. Next a new thought. Her mother and father 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 where to they were bound, but also Jane's manner. For the nurse was holding her self 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, were going 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 door 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 wainscote was somberly stained. Above the wainscote, the dull tapestry walls reached to a ceiling richly paneled. 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 looks 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 Mr. Telegun 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, curtsying 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. Reseding 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-back 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 Murth 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, father. 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 tense-ness of his visage. She turned another corner and curts her to way along the opposite side of the table. On this side were precisely as many high-back chairs as on the other, and now, "'You adorable child!' cried the ladies, and "'Haha! Don't the rest of us get a smile?' said the men. When all the curts scene 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 Johnny Blake she had been often alone with her mother and father 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, mother?' "'Yes, indeed, dear.' Gwendolyn went up to Jane, who was waiting, rooted and rigid, close by. The reddish eyes of the nursemaid 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. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of The Poor Little Rich Girl. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Susan Umpleby. The Poor Little Rich Girl by Eleanor Gates, Chapter 3. 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 clotheslines. 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 widest 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 Royal 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 overlooked 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, ho-ho! 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 the groups 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 Royal and Jane made themselves extra need 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 bedtime the previous evening, Potter had telephoned that Madame 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 anymore, 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 red 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 felt to inspecting the row of houses across the way, in search of other strange but friendly faces. There were exactly 12 houses opposite. The corner one farthest from the river she called the Greyhaired House. An old lady lived there, who knitted bright worsted. Also a faddle 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. Wendlin leaned out, chin on palm, to canvas the quaintly curtain windows, none of which at the moment framed a venerable head. Next the Greyhaired House there had been, up to a recent date, a vacant lot walled off from the sidewalk by a high broad billboard. Now a pit yawned where formerly was the vacant space. And instead of the fascinating pictures that decorated the billboard, 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, ketchup, their towered above street and pit and even above the chimneys of the Greyhaired 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 Wendlin 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 brownstone fronts and brownstone 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 brownstone 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, Wendlin called these ten the step houses. The step houses were seldom interesting. As Wendlin's glances traveled now from brownstone front to brownstone front, not one presented even the relief of a visiting postman. 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 please 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 Wendlin 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 Wendlin had never seen before in the brick house, but though it was strange, it was entirely friendly. For as Wendlin smiled at a greeting, it smiled her a greeting back. She was a nursemaid, 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 nursemaid. Her hair was almost as fair as Wendlin'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 Wendlin's French doll. Also it seemed certain, even at such a distance, that she had no freckles. Wendlin waved both hands at her. She threw a kiss back. Oh, thank you, cried Wendlin out loud. She threw kisses with alternating fingertips. The nursemaid shook the curtains at her. Then they fell into place. She was gone. Wendlin 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 Royals. 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 Wendlin'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. Wendlin 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? Wendlin 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. Wendlin cocked her yellow head to one side, after the manner of her canary. Bad taste, Louise joined her companion. Crystal, if you please, must have cost a fabulous sum. One or two articles were moved on the dresser, then. Poor little girl, observed the other woman. Rich butt! Wendlin 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 ensured against being understood by the use of strange terms, spellings, winks, nods, shrugs, or sudden stops at the most important point. But now, with her self-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? Nobody. Wendlin stared. Nobody at all, absolutely. You know, they say. She paused for emphasis. Now, Wendlin'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? Wendlin'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. Wendlin caught her breath. The society bee in her bonnet? Ah, breathed Louise as if comprehending, then, dear, dear. She talks of nothing else. She hears nothing else. She sees nothing else. Bad is that. Goes wherever she can shove in. Subscription lectures and music ales, hospital teas, Christmas bazaars, and she benches her palms, 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 anywhere with her. And he? Wendlin 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. Hmm, Wendlin 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 Wendlin's mouth, but not to smother Murth. 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 Royal, and now here he was chattering about her father. It's the usual story, commented Louise Comley, with these nouveau richets. Shh, a moment of stillness, as if both were listening then. Sprecken sie Deutsch? I read it fairly well. Parlez vos Français? Oh, oui, oui. Allo. And there followed in undertones, a short spirited conversation in the gallic. Wendlin made a silent resolution to devote more time and thought to the peevish and staccato instruction of Miss Dubois. 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 Wendlin's mother. I didn't intend being so long. Wendlin half started forward then stopped. Why, of course, with sounds of rising. Certainly. Differences below stairs, I find, require prompt action. I fancy you have oceans of executive ability, declared Louise Wormley. That orphan's home affair. I hear you managed it tremendously. No, no. Really, my dear, it was the other woman. To be quite frank, we must confess that we haven't missed you. We have 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 draft coming from somewhere. It's the side window, madam. Instinctively, Wendlin flattened herself against the woodwork 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 Wendlin 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 Wendlin? Wendlin, repeated her mother, surprised. Why, what were you doing there, darling? Wendlin, this in a faint gasp from both visitors. Wendlin slowly came forward. She did not raise her eyes, only curtsied. So this is your little daughter. A gloved hand was reached out and Wendlin was drawn forward. How cunning! Wendlin 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! Mother! 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 Wendlin. 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. Besided, waiting with an impressive air, was Miss Royal. 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 downtown. I wish you were lunching here, said Wendlin's mother. She freed herself gently from the clinging arms and followed the two. Miss Royal, will you take Wendlin? As the governess promptly advanced with a half bow and a set smile that was like a grimace, Wendlin 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, mother, don't you go! Mother must tell the ladies goodbye. What touching affection! It was the elder of the visiting pair. Miss Royal assented with a simper. Will you come back? urged Wendlin, dropping her voice. Oh, I want to see you, darting a look sideways. 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 Wendlin'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 Royal with a conscious, sinuous shift from foot to foot, Wendlin will have seven tongues at her command. How chic! Once more the gloved hand was extended to pat the pink satin hair-bow. Wendlin 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 downtown. Wouldn't that be jolly, Louise, turning? Offly jolly! Do come! Oh, do! Mother! Wendlin's mother looked down. A sudden color was mounting to her cheeks, her eyes shone. Well, she said, with rising inflection, it was acceptance. Wendlin stepped back. The pink muslin in a nervous grasp at either side. Oh, won't you stay? She half whispered. Mother will see you at dinner time, darling. Tell Jane, Miss Royal. About. Louise led the way quickly, followed by the elderly lady. Wendlin's mother came last. A bronze gate slid between the three and Wendlin watching them go. The cage lowered noiselessly with a last glimpse of upturned faces and waving hands. Wendlin, lips pouting, crossed toward the schoolroom 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 waiting to jump out at Miss Royal and give her a scare when she'd come through, she explained. Wendlin said nothing. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of The Poor Little Rich Girl This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Susan Umpleby. The Poor Little Rich Girl by Eleanor Gates. Chapter 4. It was a morning abounding in unexpected good fortune. For one thing Miss Royal was indisposed, to an extent that was fully convincing, and was lying down, browsed swath 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 Johnny Blake overalls, who, as he hammered and soldered in coupled lengths of piping with his wrench, discussed various grown-up topics in a loud voice with Jane, thus levying on her attention. Miss Royal'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 writing lesson seem advisable. It was Thomas who telephoned the postponement, and Wendlin 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 concerned touching way to your matters. Slippers upheld by a hassock, and slender pink-frogged figure bent across the edge of the schoolroom 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 blackboard 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 pouring over was a small one. B double E, she spelled. B, a social honey-gathering insect. 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 peak nurse reward 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 hassec to look at him, and at first glance, divined at something, probably in the nature of an edible, might be expected, for the breast pocket of his liveryed 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 Royal, 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, yes, 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 out-of-side, Gwyndolin caught it up eagerly. Miss Royal 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 spying 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 she doing? 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 with 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 Gwyndolin, 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 Gwyndolin. She proffered the bag. He ignored it. His face was dreamy. "'There's a fine pomeranian at the brick-house,' he remarked. "'It was the first time I'd ever seen her,' said Gwyndolin, with the nurse still in mind. Doesn't she smile nice?' Now, Thomas waxed enthusiastic. And she's a lot prettier close, too, he declared, than she is with a street between. Ah, you ought!' That moment Jane entered, fairly darting in. "'Here,' she called sharply to Gwyndolin. "'What are you eating?' "'Peanuts, Jane!' Perfect frankness being the rule when concealment was not possible. Jane came over. "'And where'd you get them?' she demanded, promptly seizing the bag as contraband. "'Thomas?' Sudden suspicion flamed in Jane's red glance. "'Oh, you musta did, Thomas, a grand turn,' she observed. Thomas shifted from foot to foot. "'I was, er, just tellin' Miss Gwyndolin,' he winked significantly, that she wouldn't like to lose us. "'So,' said Jane, still skeptical. "'Then to Gwyndolin, after a moment's reflection. "'Let me close up your dictionary for you, petty. Jane never likes to see one of your fine books lying open that way. It might put a strain on the back.' Emboldened by that cooing tone, Gwyndolin eyed the manilavad 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 those 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, of course, she does. "'Jane, ain't it near twelve?' "'But Gwyndolin had no mind to be held as a tatler. "'I told him,' she continued, husking peanuts busily, "'about the nursemaid at the brick-house.' Jane sat back. "'Aww!' she flashed a glance at Thomas, still shifting about uneasily midway between table and door. "'Then, what about the nursemaid, dearie?' "'It was Gwyndolin's turn to wax enthusiastic. "'Oh, she has such sweet hair,' she exclaimed, "'and she smiles nice!' "'Jellicy hardened the freckled visage of the kneeling Jane. "'And she's taken with you, I suppose,' said she. "'She threw me kisses,' recounted Gwyndolin, crunching happily the while. "'And, oh, Jane, some day may I go over to the brick-house? "'Some day you may, not!' Gwyndolin 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, because 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 dead white.' "'There's a Pomeranian at the brick-house,' went on Gwyndolin, "'and the pretty nurse takes it out to walk, and—' "'And Thomas is a walkin' our palms at the same time.' "'Jane was breathing hard. "'And he says she's lots prettier close, too.' "'A bell rang sharply. "'Thomas sprang away, with a gurgle Jane flounced after. "'The next moment, Gwyndolin, from the hassec 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 heart!' "'Next, Thomas' sonorous, stuff and fiddle-sticks, "'then sounds of lamentation and the slamming of a door. "'The last peanut was eaten. "'As Gwyndolin 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 armchair so popular "'with Jane, emphasized the infestivity. "'As for the heavy curtains at the side window, "'which, as near as Gwyndolin could puzzle it out, "'were the cause of the late unpleasantness, "'these were closely drawn. "'Having already eaten heartily, Gwyndolin 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 Royal 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-word "'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 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 pens, "'dusting this article and that with a napkin, "'all the while working his lips with silent speech, "'and drawing down and lifting his black eyebrows menacingly. "'Meanwhile, Gwendolyn fretted, but found some small diversion "'in standing before the peer-glass, at which, "'between the shiny 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 Dubois was short and spare, "'and these defects she emphasized by means "'of a white hat and a long feather boa. "'She led Gwendolyn to the schoolroom. "'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 a 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, Miss 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 what little bird is it that tells things 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 fouilla,' exclaimed Mademoiselle. "'She seized an end of the boa "'and drew Gwendolyn to her knee. "'You make the 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 Nouveau-Riche mean?' "'Nouveau-Riche,' said Mademoiselle, "'is not on this 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 stalky, 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 keyboard 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 quarter 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 bee that some ladies carry in a Miss Brown 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 pleaded. I just wanted to know how anybody 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 Johnny Blake's it sounded nice, because my mother, ready. Miss Brown set the metronome to tick-talking. 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 cord. Miss Brown gone, Gwendolyn sought the long window seat and curled among its cushions, at the side which commended the best view of the general. Straight before that marshal figure on the bridal 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 better plan, this was what she must prepare. For, heart-beating, hands-trimbling 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 Royal's oft-repeated lesson that nice girls do not ask questions, or worry father and mother, how easy it would have been to say, Father, what little bird tells things about you, and mother, have you really got to be 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 and 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 determinately, but his face was unlined. His dark eyes were full of laughter. Despite all the well-remembered commands Miss Royal 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. End of chapter four.