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“Gwendolyn dear,” said she, “you can have such a lovely long pretend-game between now and supper, can’t you?”

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

“You can travel!” enthused Miss Royle. “And where do you think you’ll go?”

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

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

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

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

“Then off you go!” and, Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!

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

“That tall building ‘way, ‘way down on the sky,” she panted.

“Yes, dear?”—with a simper.

“Is that where my father is?”

The smirk went. Miss Royle stared down. “Er—why?” she asked.

“‘Cause”—the other’s look was met squarely—”’cause I’m going down there to see him.”

“Ah!” breathed the governess.

“I’m going to-day,” went on Gwendolyn, passionately. “I want to!” Her lips trembled. “There’s something—”

“Something you want to tell him, dear?”—purringly.

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

“Hm!” coughed Miss Royle. (Her hms invariably prepared the way for important pronouncements.)

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

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

“No,”—still with lowered glance.

“Well, I wouldn’t go down into it if I were you.” The tone was full of hidden meaning.

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

An answer came, however. “Well, I’ll tell you: The street is full of—bears.”

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

But as to their being Down-Town—!

She lifted a face tense with earnestness “Is it true?” she asked hoarsely.

“My dear,” said Miss Royle, gently reproving, “ask anybody.”

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

She moved aside.

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

Bears!

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

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

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

Presently, silence.

Gwendolyn went in.

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

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

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

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