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Gwendolyn’s mouth began to quiver.

Hastily Jane put out a hand. “But we’ll look sharp that nothin’ of the kind happens,” she declared stoutly; “for who can git 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 git into the country a ways, we’ll invite Thomas to take the inside seat opposite,” (another wink) “and he’ll tell you about soldierin’ in India, and camps, and marches, and shootin’ elephants.”

“Aren’t there kidnapers in the country, too?” asked Gwendolyn. “I—I guess I’d rather stay home.”

“You won’t see ’em in the country this time of day,” explained Jane. “They’re all in town, huntin’ rich little children. So on with the 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—if Thomas walked along with us,” she began, “could—could anybody steal me then?”

Jane was taking out coat, hat and gloves. “What would kidnapers 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 gipsies, or—or Chinamen.”

But Gwendolyn persisted. “Thomas has killed el’phunts,” she reminded. “Are—are kidnapers worse than el’phunts?” She drew on her gloves.

Jane sat down and held out the coat. It was of 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 goin’ to trapse over the hard pavements on my poor, tired feet just because you take your notions?”

Gwendolyn began to cry—softly. “Oh, I—I thought I wouldn’t ever have to ride again wh-when I was seven,” she faltered, putting one white-gloved hand to her eyes.

“Stop that!” commanded Jane, again, “Dirtyin’ your gloves, you wasteful little thing!”

Now the big sobs came. Down went the yellow head.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” said Thomas. “Little ladies never cry.”

“Walk! walk! walk!” scolded Jane, kneeling, and preparing to adjust the new hat.

The hat had wide ribbons that tied under the chin—new, stiff ribbons.

“Johnnie Bu-Blake didn’t fasten his hat on like this,” wept Gwendolyn. She moved her chin from side to side. “He just had a—a sh-shoe-string.”

Jane had finished. “Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake! Johnnie 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 a’ eye out, will you, to see that there’s nobody layin’ in 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 bridle-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 where, on its pedestal, stood the great bronze war-horse, its mane and tail flying, its neck arched, its lips curved to neigh. Astride the horse was her friend, the General, soldierly, valorous, his hat doffed—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 kidnapers about, was he a fit guardian for the front door? As Potter swung wide the heavy grille 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 knife-men suddenly catch sight of her, and, rushing over walk and bridle-path and roadway, seize her and carry her off?