"Ah!" Now complete understanding brought Jane to her feet. She fixed Thomas with blazing eyes. "And _what_ does Thomas say, darlin'?"

Thomas waited. His ears were a dead white.

"There's a Pomeranian at the brick house," went on Gwendolyn, "and the pretty nurse takes it out to walk. And--"

"And Thomas is a-walkin' our Poms at the same time." Jane was breathing hard.

"And he says she's lots prettier close to--"

A bell rang sharply. Thomas sprang away. With a gurgle, Jane flounced after.

The next moment Gwendolyn, from the hassock--upon which she had settled in comfort--heard a wrangle of voices: First, Jane's shrill accusing, "It was _you_ put it into her head!--to come--and take my place from under me--and the food out of my very mouth--and break my hear-r-r-rt!"

Next, Thomas's sonorous, "Stuff and fiddle-sticks!" then sounds of lamentation, and the slamming of a door.

The last peanut was eaten. As Gwendolyn searched out some few remaining bits from the crevices of the bag, she shook her yellow hair hopelessly.

Truly there was no fathoming grown-ups!

The morning which had begun so propitiously ended in gloom. At the noon dinner, Thomas looked harassed. He had set the table for one. That single plate, as well as the empty arm-chair so popular with Jane, emphasized the infestivity. As for the heavy curtains at the side window, which--as near as Gwendolyn could puzzle it out--were the cause of the late unpleasantness, these were closely drawn.

Having already eaten heartily, Gwendolyn had little appetite.

Furthermore, again she was turning over and over the direful statements made concerning her parents. She employed the dinner-hour in formulating a plan that was simple but daring--one that would bring quick enlightenment concerning the things that worried. Miss Royle was still indisposed. Jane was locked in her own room, from which issued an occasional low bellow. When Thomas, too, was out of the way--gone pantry-ward with tray held aloft--she would carry it out. It called for no great amount of time: no searching of the dictionary. She would close all doors softly; then fly to the telephone--_and call up her father_.

There were times when Thomas--as well as the two others--seemed to possess the power of divination. And during the whole of the dinner his manner showed distinct apprehension. The meal concluded, even to the use of the finger-bowl, and all dishes disposed upon the tray, he hung about, puttering with the table, picking up crumbs and pins, dusting this article and that with a napkin,--all the while working his lips with silent speech, and drawing down and lifting his black eye-brows menacingly.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn fretted. But found some small diversion in standing before the pier glass, at which, between the shining rows of her teeth, she thrust out a tip of scarlet. She was thinking about the discussion anent tongues held by her mother and the two visitors.

"Seven," she murmured, and viewed the greater part of her own tongue thoughtfully; "_seven_."

The afternoon was a French-and-music afternoon. Directly after dinner might be expected the Gallic teacher--undesired at any hour. Thomas puttered and frowned until a light tap announced her arrival. Then quickly handed Gwendolyn over to her company.

Mademoiselle Du Bois was short and spare. And these defects she emphasized by means of a wide hat and a long feather boa. She led Gwendolyn to the school-room. There she settled down in a low chair, opened a black reticule, took out a thick, closely written letter, and fell to reading.

Gwendolyn amused herself by experimenting with the boa, which she festooned, now over one shoulder, now over the other. "Mademoiselle,"

she began, "what kind of a bird owned these feathers?"

"Dear me, Mees Gwendolyn," chided Mademoiselle, irritably (she spoke with much precision and only a slight accent), "how you talk!"

_Talk_--the word was a cue! Why not make certain inquiries of Mademoiselle?

"But do little _birds_ ever talk?" returned Gwendolyn, undaunted. The boa was thin at one point. She tied a knot in it. "And which little bird is it that tells things to--to people?" Then, more to herself than to Mademoiselle, who was still deep in her letter, "I shouldn't wonder if it wasn't the little bird that's in the cuckoo clock, though--"

"_Ma foil!_" exclaimed Mademoiselle. She seized an end of the boa and drew Gwendolyn to her knee. "You make ze head buzz. Come!" She reached for a book on the school-room table. "_Attendez!_"

"Mademoiselle," persisted Gwendolyn, twining and untwining, "if I do my French fast will you tell me something? What does _nouveaux riches_ mean?"

"_Nouveaux riches_," said Mademoiselle, "is not on ziss page.

_Attendez-vous!_"

Miss Brown followed Mademoiselle Du Bois, the one coming upon the heels of the other; so that a loud _crescendo_ from the nursery, announcing the arrival of the music-teacher, drowned the last paragraph of French.

To Gwendolyn an interruption at any time was welcome. This day it was doubly so. She had learned nothing from Mademoiselle. But Miss Brown--She made toward the nursery, doing her newest dance step.

Miss Brown was stocky, with a firm tread and an eye of decision. As Gwendolyn appeared, she was seated at the piano, her face raised (as if she were seeking out some spot on the ceiling), and her solid frame swaying from side to side in the ecstasy of performance. Up and down the key-board of the instrument her plump hands galloped.

Gwendolyn paused beside the piano-seat. The air was vibrant with melody.

The lifted face, the rocking, the ardent touch--all these inspired hope.

The gray eyes were wide with eagerness. Each corner of the rosy mouth was upturned.

The resounding notes of a march ended with a bang. Miss Brown straightened--got to her feet--smiled down.

That smile gave Gwendolyn renewed encouragement. They were alone. She stood on tiptoe. "Miss Brown," she began, "did you ever hear of a--a bee that some ladies carry in a--"

Miss Brown's smile of greeting went. "Now, Gwendolyn," she interrupted severely, "are you going to begin your usual silly, silly questions?"

Gwendolyn fell back a step. "But I didn't ask you a silly question day before yesterday," she plead. "I just wanted to know how _any_body could call my German teacher Miss _French_."

"Take your place, if you please," bade Miss Brown curtly, "and don't waste my time." She pointed a stubby finger at the piano-seat.

Gwendolyn climbed up, her cheeks scarlet with wounded dignity, her breast heaving with a rancor she dared not express. "Do I have to play that old piece?" she asked.

"You must,"--with rising inflection.

"Up at Johnnie Blake's it sounded nice. 'Cause my moth-er--"

"Ready!" Miss Brown set the metronome to _tick-tocking_. Then she consulted a watch.

Gwendolyn raised one hand to her face, and gulped.

"Come! Come! Put your fingers on the keys."

"But my cheek itches."

"Get your position, I say."

Gwendolyn struck a spiritless chord.

Miss Brown gone, Gwendolyn sought the long window-seat and curled up among its cushions--at the side which commanded the best view of the General. Straight before that martial figure, on the bridle-path, a man with a dump-cart and a shaggy-footed horse was picking up leaves. He used a shovel. And each time he raised it to shoulder-height and emptied it into his cart, a few of the leaves went whirling away out of reach--like frightened butterflies. But she had no time to pretend anything of the kind. A new and a better plan!--this was what she must prepare. For--heart beating, hands trembling from haste--she had _tried_ the telephone--_and found it dead to every Hello!_

But she was not discouraged. She was only balked.

The talking bird, the bee her mother kept in a bonnet, her father's harness, and the candles that burned at both ends--if she had _only_ known about them that evening of her seventh anniversary! Ignoring Miss Royle's oft-repeated lesson that "Nice little girls do not ask questions," or "worry father and mother," how easy it would have been to say, "Fath-er, what little bird tells things about you?" and, "Moth-er, have you _really_ got a bee in your bonnet?"

But--the questions could still be asked. She was balked only temporarily.

She got down and crossed the room to the white-and-gold writing-desk.

Two photographs in silver frames stood upon it, flanking the rose-embossed calendar at either side. She took them down, one at a time, and looked at them earnestly.

The first was of her mother, taken long, long ago, before Gwendolyn was born. The oval face was delicately lovely and girlish. The mouth curved in a smile that was tender and sweet.