The second photograph showed a clean-shaven, boyish young man in a rough business-suit--this was her father, when he first came to the city. His lips were set together firmly, almost determinedly. But his face was unlined, his dark eyes were full of laughter.

Despite all the well-remembered commands Miss Royle had issued; despite Jane's oft-repeated threats and Thomas's warnings, [and putting aside, too, any thought of what punishment might follow her daring] Gwendolyn now made a firm resolution: _To see at least one of her parents immediately and alone_.

As she set the photographs back in their places, she lifted each to kiss it. She kissed the smiling lips of the one, the laughing eyes of the other.

CHAPTER V

The crescent of the Drive, never without its pageant; the broad river thronged with craft; the high forest-fringed precipice and the houses that could be glimpsed beyond--all these played their part in Gwendolyn's pretend-games. She crowded the Drive with the soldiers of the General, rank upon rank of marching men whom he reviewed with pride, while his great bronze steed pranced tirelessly; and she, a swordless Joan of Arc in a three-cornered hat and smartly-tailored habit, pranced close beside to share all honors from the wide back of her own mettlesome war-horse.

As for the river vessels, she took long pretend-journeys upon them--every detail of which she carefully carried out. The companions selected were those smiling friends that appeared at neighboring windows; or she chose hearty, happy laundresses from the roofs; adding, by way of variety, some small, bashful acquaintances made at the dancing-school of Monsieur Tellegen.

But more often, imagining herself a Princess, and the nursery a prison-tower from the loop-holes of which she viewed the great, free world, she liked to people the boats out of stories that Potter had told her on rare, but happy, occasions. A prosaic down-traveling steamer became the wonderful ship of Ulysses, his seamen bound to smokestacks and railing, his prow pointed for the ocean whereinto the River crammed its deep flood. A smaller boat, smoking its way up-stream, changed into the fabled bark of a man by the name of Jason, and at the bow of this Argo sat Johnnie Blake, fish-pole over the side, feet dangling, line trailing, and a silvery trout spinning at the hook. A third boat, smaller still, and driven forward by oars, bore a sad, level-lying, white-clad figure--Elaine, dead through the plotting of cruel servants, and now rowed by the hoary dumb toward a peaceful mooring at the foot of some far timbered slope.

In each of the houses across the wide river, she often established a pretend-home. Her father was with her always; her mother, too,--in a silken gown, with a jeweled chaplet on her head. But her household was always blissfully free of those whose chief design it was to thwart and terrify her--Miss Royle, Jane, Thomas; her teachers [as a body]; also, Policemen, Doctors and Bears. Old Potter was, of course, the pretend-butler. And Rosa, notwithstanding the fact that she had once been, while at Johnnie Blake's, the herald of a hated bed-time went as maid.

Gwendolyn had often secretly coveted the Superintendent's residence in the Park (so that, instead of straggling along a concrete pavement at rare intervals, held captive by the hand that was in Jane's, she might always have the right to race willy-nilly across the grass--chase the tame squirrels to shelter--_even climb a tree_). But more earnestly did she covet a house beyond the precipice. Were there not trees there? and rocks? Without doubt there were Johnnie Blake glades as well--glades bright with flowers, and green with lacy ferns. For of these glades Gwendolyn had received proof: Following a sprinkle on a cool day, a light west wind brought a butterfly against a pane of the front window.

When Gwendolyn raised the sash, the butterfly fluttered in, throwing off a jeweled drop as he came and alighted upon the dull rose and green of a flower in the border of the nursery rug. His wings were flat together and he was tipped to one side, like a skiff with tinted sails. But when the sails were dry, and parted once more, and sunlight had replaced shower, he launched forth from the pink landing-place of Gwendolyn's palm--and sped away and away, due west!

But the view from the _side_ window!

Beyond the line of step-houses, and beyond the buildings where the maids hung their wash, were roofs. They seemed to touch, to have no streets between them anywhere. They reached as far as Gwendolyn could see. They were all heights, all shapes, all varieties as to tops--some being level, others coming to a point at one corner, a few ending in a tower.

One tower, which was square, and on the outer-most edge of the roofs, had a clock in its summit. When night settled, a light sprang up behind the clock--a great, round light that was like a single shining eye.

She did not know the proper name for all those acres of roof. But Jane called them Down-Town.

At all times they were fascinating. Of a winter's day the snow whitened them into beauty. The rain washed them with its slanting down-pour till their metal sheeting glistened as brightly as the sides of the General's horse. The sea-fog, advanced by the wind, blotted out all but the nearest, wrapped these in torn shrouds, and heaped itself about the dun-breathed chimneys like the smoke of a hundred fires.

She loved the roofs far more than Drive or River or wooded expanse; more because they meant so much--and that without her having to do much pretending. For across them, in some building which no one had ever pointed out to her, in a street through which she had never driven, was her father's office!

She herself often selected the building he was in, placing him first in one great structure, then in another. Whenever a new one rose, as it often did, there she promptly moved his office. Once for a whole week he worked directly under the great glowing eye of the clock.

Just now she was standing at the side window of the nursery looking away across the roofs. The fat old gentleman at the gray-haired house was sponging off the rubber-plant, and waving the long green leaves at her in greeting. Gwendolyn feigned not to see. Her lips were firmly set. A scarlet spot of determination burned round either dimple. Her gray eyes smouldered darkly--with a purpose that was unswerving.

"I'm just going down there!" she said aloud.

_Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_

It was Miss Royle, entering. Though Saturday was yet two days away, the governess was preparing to go out for the afternoon, and was busily engaged in drawing on her gloves, her glance alternating between her task and the time-piece on the school-room mantel.

"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.