"Um!" assented the Doctor. "And shin up trees (but don't disturb eggs if you find 'em). Also do barefoot gardening,--where there isn't a plant to hurt! _And wade the creek_."

Again the dimples came rushing to their places. "I like squashing," she declared, smiling round.

"Then isn't there a hill to climb?" continued the Doctor, "with your hat down your back on a string? And stones to roll--?"

The small face grew suddenly serious. "No, thank you," she said, with a slow shake of the head, "I'd rather not turn any stones."

"Very well--hm! hm!"

"Oh, and there'll be jolly times of an evening after supper," broke in her father, enthusiastically. The stern lines of his face were relaxed, and a score of tiny ripples were carrying a smile from his mouth to his tired eyes. "We'll light all the candles--"

"Daddy!" She relinquished the bowl, and turned to him swiftly. "Not--not candles that burn at both ends--"

"No." He stopped smiling.

"You're a wise little body!" pronounced the Doctor, taking her hand.

"How's the pulse now?" asked her mother. "Somehow"--with a nervous little laugh--"she makes me anxious."

"Normal," answered the Doctor promptly. "Only thing that isn't normal about her is that busy brain, which is abnormally bright." Thereupon he shook the small hand he was holding, strode to the table, and picked up a leather-covered case. It was black, and held a number of bottles. In no way did it resemble the pill-basket. "And if a certain person is to leave for the country soon--"

Gwendolyn's smile was knowing. "You mean 'a certain party.'" He was trying to tease her with that old nursery name!

"--She'd better rest. Good-by." And with that mild advice, he beckoned the nurse to follow him, whispered with her a moment at the door, and was gone.

Gwendolyn's father resumed his place beside the bed. "She _can_ rest,"

he declared, "--the blessed baby! Not a governess or a teacher is to show as much as a hat-feather."

She nodded. "We don't want 'em quacking around."

Someone tapped at the door then, and entered--Rosa, bearing a card-tray upon which were two square bits of pasteboard. "To see Madam," she said, presenting the tray. After which she showed her white teeth in greeting to Gwendolyn, then stooped, and touched an open palm with her lips.

Gwendolyn's mother read the cards, and shook her head. "Tell the ladies--explain that I can't leave my little daughter even for a moment to-day--"

"Oh, yes, Madam."

"And that we're leaving for the country _very_ soon."

Rosa bobbed her dark head as she backed away.

"And, Rosa--"

"Yes, Madam?"

"You know what I need in the country--where we were before."

A bow.

"Pack, Rosa. And you will go, of course."

"And Potter, Madam?"

"Potter, too. You'll have to pack a few things up here also." A white hand indicated the wardrobe door.

"Very well, Madam."

As the door closed, the telephone rang. Gwendolyn's father rose to answer it. "I think it's the office, dear," he explained; and into the transmitter--"Yes?... Hello?... Yes. Good-morning!... Oh, thanks! She's better.... And by the way, just close out that line of stocks. Yes.... I shan't be back in the office for some time. I'm leaving for the country as soon as Gwendolyn can stand the trip. To-morrow, maybe, or the next day.... No; don't go into the market until I come back. I intend to reconstruct my policy a good deal. Yes.... Oh, yes.... Good-by."

He went to the front window. And as he stood in the light, Gwendolyn lay and looked at him. He had worn green the night before. But now there was not a vestige of paper money showing anywhere in his dress. In fact, he was wearing the suit--a dark blue--he had worn that night she penetrated to the library.

"Fath-er."

"Well, little daughter?"

"I was wondering has anybody scribbled on the General's horse?--with chalk?"

Her father looked down at the Drive. "The General's there!" he announced, glancing back at her over a shoulder. "And his horse seems in _fine_ fettle this morning, prancing, and arching his neck. And nobody's scribbled on him, which seems to please the General very much, for he's got his hat off--"

Gwendolyn sat up, her eyes rounding. "To hundreds and hundreds of soldiers!" she told her mother. "Only everybody can't see the soldiers."

Her father came back to her. "_I_ can," he declared proudly. "Do you want to see 'em, too?--just a glimpse, mother! Come! We'll play the game together!" And the next moment, silk coverlet and all, Gwendolyn was swung up in his arms and borne to the window-seat.

"And, oh, there's the P'liceman!" she cried out.

"His name is Flynn," informed her father. "And _twice_ this morning he's asked after you."

"Oh!" she stood up among the cushions to get a better view. "He takes lost little boys and girls to their fath-ers and moth-ers, daddy, and he takes care of the trees, and the flowers, and the fountains, and--- and the ob'lisk. But he only likes it up here in summer. In winter he likes to be Down-Town. And he _ought_ to be Down-Town, 'cause he's got a _really_ level head--"

"Wave to him now," said her father. "There! He's swinging his cap!--When we're out walking one of these times we'll stop and shake hands with him!"

"With the hand-organ man, too, fath-er? Oh, you like him, _don't_ you?

And you won't send him away!"

"Father won't."

He laid her back among the pillows then. And she turned her face to her mother.

"Can't you sleep, darling?--And don't dream!"

"Well, I'm pretty tired."

"We know what a hard long night it was."

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad we're going back to Johnnie Blake's, moth-er. 'Cause, oh, I'm tired of pretending!"

"Of pretending," said her father. "Ah, yes."

Her mother nodded at him. "I'm tired of pretending, too," she said in a low voice.