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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.”