And instead of the fascinating pictures that decorated the bill-board (one week a baby, rosy, dimpled and laughing; the next some huge lettering elaborately combined with a floral design; the next a mammoth bottle, red and beautiful, and flanked by a single gleaming word: "Catsup") there towered--above street and pit, and even above the chimneys of the gray-haired house--the naked girders of a new steel structure.

The girders were black, but rusted to a brick-color in patches and streaks. They were so riveted together that through them could be seen small, regular spots of light. Later on, as Gwendolyn knew, floors and windowed walls and a tin top would be fitted to the framework. And what was now a skeleton would be another house!

Directly opposite the nursery, on that part of the side street which sloped, were ten narrow houses, each four stories high, each with brown-stone fronts and brown-stone steps, each topped by a large chimney and a small chimney. In every detail these ten houses were precisely alike. Jane, for some unaccountable reason, referred to them as private dwellings. But since the roof of the second brown-stone house was just a foot lower than the roof of the first, the third roof just a foot lower than the roof of the second, and so on to the very tenth and last, Gwendolyn called these ten the step-houses.

The step-houses were seldom interesting. As Gwendolyn's glances traveled now from brown-stone front to brown-stone front, not one presented even the relief of a visiting post-man.

Her progress down the line of step-houses brought her by degrees to the brick house on the Drive--a large vine-covered house, the wide entrance of which was toward the river. And no sooner had she given it one quick glance than she uttered a little shout of pleased surprise. The brick-house people were back!

All the shades were up. There was smoke rising from one of the four tall chimneys. And even as Gwendolyn gazed, all absorbed interest, the net curtains at an upper window were suddenly drawn aside and a face looked out.

It was a face that Gwendolyn had never seen before in the brick house.

But though it was strange, it was entirely friendly. For as Gwendolyn smiled it a greeting, it smiled her a greeting back!

She was a nurse-maid--so much was evident from the fact that she wore a cap. But it was also plain that her duties differed in some way from Jane's. For her cap was different--shaped like a sugar-bowl turned upside-down; hollow, and white, and marred by no flying strings.

And she was not a red-haired nurse-maid. Her hair was almost as fair as Gwendolyn's own, and it framed her face in a score of saucy wisps and curls. Her face was pretty--full and rosy, like the face of Gwendolyn's French doll. Also it seemed certain--even at such a distance--that she had no freckles. Gwendolyn waved both hands at her. She threw a kiss back.

"Oh, thank you!" cried Gwendolyn, out loud. She threw kisses with alternating finger-tips.

The nurse-maid shook the curtains at her. Then--they fell into place.

She was gone.

Gwendolyn sighed.

The next moment she heard voices in the direction of the hall--first, Thomas's; next, a woman's--a strange one this. Disappointed, she turned to face the screening curtains. But she was in no mood to make herself agreeable to visiting friends of Miss Royle's--and who else could this be?

She decided to remain quietly in seclusion; to emerge for no one except her mother.

A door opened. A heavy step advanced, followed by the murmur of trailing skirts upon carpet. Then Thomas spoke--his tone that full and measured one employed, not to the governess, to Jane, to herself, or to any other common mortal, but to Potter, to her father and mother, and to guests.

"This is Miss Gwendolyn's nursery," he announced.

Beyond the curtains were persons of importance!

She shrank against the window, taking care not to stir the brocade.

"We will wait here,"--the voice was clear, musical.

"Thank you." Thomas's heavy step retreated. A door closed.

There was a moment of perfect stillness. Then that musical voice began again:

"Where do you suppose that young one is?"

A second voice rippled out a low laugh.

Gwendolyn laughed too,--silently, her face against the glass. The fat old gentleman in the gray-haired house chanced to be looking in her direction. He caught the broad smile and joined in.

"In the school-room likely,"--it was the first speaker, answering her own inquiry--"getting stuffed."

Stuffed! Gwendolyn could appreciate _that_. She choked back a giggle with one small hand.

Someone else thought the declaration amusing, for there was another well-bred ripple; then once more that murmur of trailing skirts, going toward the window-seat; going the opposite way also, as if one of the two was making a circuit of the room.

Presently, "Just look at this dressing-table, Louise! Fancy such a piece of furniture for a _child!_ Ridiculous!"

Gwendolyn cocked her yellow head to one side--after the manner of her canary.

"Bad taste." Louise joined her companion. "_Crystal_, if you please!

Must've cost a fabulous sum."

One or two articles were moved on the dresser. Then, "Poor little girl!"

observed the other woman. "Rich, but--"

Gwendolyn puckered her brows gravely. Was the speaker referring to _her?_ Clasping her hands tight, she leaned forward a little, straining to catch every syllable. As a rule when gossip or criticism was talked in her hearing, it was insured against being understood by the use of strange terms, spellings, winks, nods, shrugs, or sudden stops at the most important point. But now, with herself hidden, was there not a likelihood of plain speech?

It came.

The voice went on: "This is the first time you've met the mother, isn't it?"

"I think so,"--indifferently. "Who is she, anyhow?"

"_No_body."

Gwendolyn stared.

"Nobody at all--_absolutely_. You know, they say--" She paused for emphasis.

Now, Gwendolyn's eyes grew suddenly round; her lips parted in surprise.

_They_ again!

"Yes?" encouraged Louise.

Lower--"They say she was just an ordinary country girl, pretty, and horribly poor, with a fair education, but no culture to speak of. She met him; he had money and fell in love with her; she married him. And, oh, _then!_" She chuckled.

"Made the money fly?"

The two were coming to settle themselves in chairs close to the side window.

"Not exactly. Haven't you heard what's the matter with her?"

Gwendolyn's face paled a little. There was something the matter with her mother?--her dear, beautiful, young mother! The clasped hands were pressed to her breast.

"Ambitious?" hazarded Louise, confidently.

"It's no secret. Everybody's laughing at her,--at the rebuffs she takes; the money she gives to charity (wedges, you understand); the quantities of dresses she buys; the way she slaps on the jewels. She's got the society bee in her bonnet!"

Gwendolyn caught her breath. _The society bee in her bonnet?_