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

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

“Good-morning,” said Gwendolyn, curtseying.

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

“Are there p’liceman in these woods?” inquired Gwendolyn.

“Nope,” said Johnnie.

“Are there bears?”

“Nope.”

“Are there doctors?”

“Nope. But there’s snakes—some.”

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

“‘Fraid to go barefoot?”

“Oh, I wish I could!”

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

“Well, you’re little yet,” explained Johnnie. “But just you wait till you grow up.”

“Are—are you grown-up?”—a trifle doubtfully.

“Of course, I’m grown up! Why, I’m seven.” Whereat she strode up and down, hands on hips, in feeble imitation of Johnnie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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