That moment she caught sight of the photographs on the writing-desk. She stood still to look at them. As she looked, both pictured faces gradually dimmed. For tears had come at last--at the thought of leaving father and mother--quiet tears that flowed in erratic little S's between gray eyes and trembling mouth.

How could she forsake _them?_

"Gwendolyn," she half-whispered, "s'pose we just pu-play the Johnnie Blake Pretend ... Oh, very well,"--this last with all of Miss Royle's precise intonation.

The heavy brocade hangings were the forest trees. The piano was the mountain, richly inlaid. The table was the cottage, and she rolled it nearer the dull rose timber at the side window. The rug was the grassy, flowery glade; its border, the stream that threaded the glade. Beyond the stream twisted an unpaved and carefully polished road.

The first part of this particular Pretend was the drive to the village--carved and enameled, and paneled with woven cane. A hassock did duty for a runabout that had no top to shut out the sun-light, no windows to bar the fragrant air. In front of the hassock, a pillow did duty as a stout dappled pony.

Her father drove. And she sat beside him, holding on to the iron bar of the runabout seat with one hand, to a corner of his coat with the other; for not only were the turns sharp but the country road was uneven. The sun was just rising above the forest, and it warmed her little back. The fresh breeze caressed her cheeks into crimson, and swirled her hair about the down-sloping rim of her wreath-encircled hat. That breeze brought with it the perfume of opening flowers, the fragrance exhaled by the trees along the way, the essence of the damp ground stirred by hoof and wheel. Gwendolyn breathed through nostrils swelled to their widest.

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--"

She caught a stealthy _rustle! rustle! rustle!_ from the direction of the hall. She spoke more low then, but continued to chatter, her pretend-conversation, loving, confidential, and consoling.

Finally, "Moth-er," she plead, "will you please sing?"

She sang. Her voice was husky from crying. More than once it quavered and broke. But the song was one she had heard in the long, raftered living-room at Johnnie Blake's. And it soothed.

"Oh, it is not while beauty and youth are thine o-o-own, And thy cheek is unstained by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be kno-o-own--"

It grew faint. It ended--in a long sigh. Then one small hand in the gentle make-believe grasp of another, she slept.

CHAPTER VII

Miss Royle looked sober as she sipped her orange-juice. And she cut off the top of her breakfast egg as noiselessly as possible. Her directions to Thomas, she half-whispered, or merely signaled them by a wave of her coffee-spoon. Now and then she glanced across the room to the white-and-gold bed. Then she beamed fondly.

As for Thomas, he fairly stole from tray to table, from table to tray, his face all concern. Occasionally, if his glance followed Miss Royle's, he smiled--a broad, sympathetic smile.

And Jane was subdued and solicitous. She sat beside the bed, holding a small hand--which from time to time she patted encouragingly.

After the storm, calm. The more tempestuous the storm, the more perfect the calm. This was the rule of the nursery. Gwendolyn, lying among the pillows, wished she could always feel weak and listless. It made everyone so kind.