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

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

“Miss Royle!”

“Yes, darling?” The governess leaned forward attentively.

“I can understand why you call Thomas a footman. It’s ’cause he runs around so much on his feet—”

“You’re better,” said Miss Royle. She turned her paper inside out.

“But one day you said he was all ears, and—”

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

Gwendolyn wanted a drink of water.

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

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

Thomas brought forward a silver dish. “It’s a bird!” he announced, and lifted the cover.

Gwendolyn looked.

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

“Don’t it look delicious!” said Thomas warmly. “Don’t it tempt!”

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

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

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

“Not likely,” declared Thomas.

Gwendolyn turned away.

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

“I—I don’t want anything,” she declared.

“Oh, but maybe you’d fancy an egg.”

Gwendolyn took a glass of water.

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

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

Gwendolyn had nothing to say.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, it’d do you good, pettie,”—this coaxingly.

“It’s too warm to dress,” said Gwendolyn.

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

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

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