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?

She sank, trembling, upon the seat of the limousine.

Jane followed her. Then Thomas closed the windowed door of the motor and took his place beside the chauffeur.

Gwendolyn leaned forward for a swift glance at the lower windows, barred against intruders. The great house was of stone. On side and rear it stood flat against other houses. But it was built on a corner; and along its front and outer side, the tops of the basement windows were set a foot or more above the level of the sidewalk. To Gwendolyn those windows were huge eyes, peering out at her from under heavy lashes of iron.

The automobile started. Jane arranged her skirts and leaned back luxuriously, her big hands folded on her lap.

"My! but ain't this grand!" she exclaimed. Then to Gwendolyn: "You don't mind, do you, dearie, if Jane has a taste of gum as we go along?"

Gwendolyn did not reply. She had not heard. She was leaning toward the little window on her side of the limousine. In front of Jane was the chauffeur, wide-backed and skillful, and crouched vigilantly over his wheel. But in front of her was Thomas, sitting in the proudly erect, stiff position peculiar to him whenever he fared abroad. He looked neither to right nor left. He seemed indifferent that danger lurked for her along the Drive.

But she--! As the limousine joined others, all speeding forward merrily, her pale little face was pressed against the shield-shaped pane of glass, her frightened eyes roved continually, searching the moving crowds.

CHAPTER II

The nursery was on the top-most floor of the great stone house--this for sunshine and air. But the sunshine was gone when Gwendolyn returned from her drive, and a half-dozen silk-shaded lights threw a soft glow over the room. To shut out the chill of the spring evening the windows were down. Across them were drawn the heavy hangings of rose brocade.

There was a lamp on the larger of the nursery tables, a tall lamp, almost flower-like with its petal-shaped ruffles of lace and chiffon. It made conspicuous two packages that flanked it--one small and square; the other large, and as round as a hat-box. Each was wrapped in white paper and tied with red string.

"Birthday presents!" cried Jane, the moment she spied them; and sprang forward. "Oh, I wonder what they are! What do _you_ guess, Gwendolyn?"

Gwendolyn followed slowly, blinking against the light. "I can't guess,"

she said without enthusiasm. The glass-fronted case was full of toys, none of which she particularly cherished. (Indeed, most of them were carefully wrapped from sight.) New ones would merely form an addition.

"Well, what would you _like?_" queried Jane, catching up the small package and shaking it.

Gwendolyn suddenly looked very earnest.

"Most in the whole _world?_" she asked.

"Yes, what?" Jane dropped the small package and shook the large one.

"In the whole, whole big world?" went on Gwendolyn--to herself rather than to her nurse. She was not looking at the table, but toward a curtained window, and the gray eyes had a tender faraway expression.

There was a faint conventional pattern in the brocade of the heavy hangings. It suggested trees with graceful down-growing boughs. She clasped her hands. "I want to live out in the woods," she said, "at Johnnie Blake's cottage by the stream that's got fish in it."

Jane set the big package down with a thump. "That's _awful_ selfish of you," she declared warmly. "For you know right well that Thomas and _I_ wouldn't like to leave the city and live away out in the country.

_Would_ we, Thomas?"--for he had just entered.

"Cer-tain-ly _not_," said Thomas.

"And it'd give poor Miss Royle the neuralgia," (Jane and Miss Royle might contend with each other; they made common cause against _her_.)

"But none of you'd _have_ to" assured Gwendolyn. "When I was at Johnnie Blake's that once, just Potter went, and Rosa, and Cook. And Rosa buttoned my dresses and gave me my bath, and--"

"So Rosa'll do _just_ as well as me," interrupted Jane, jealously.

"--And Potter passed the dishes at table," resumed Gwendolyn, ignoring the remark; "and _he_ never hurried the best-tasting ones."

"Hear that will you, Thomas!" cried Jane. "Mr. _Potter_ never hurried the best-tastin' ones!"