Gwendolyn raised one hand to her face, and gulped.
"Come! Come! Put your fingers on the keys."
"But my cheek itches."
"Get your position, I say."
Gwendolyn struck a spiritless chord.
Miss Brown gone, Gwendolyn sought the long window-seat and curled up among its cushions—at the side which commanded the best view of the General. Straight before that martial figure, on the bridle-path, a man with a dump-cart and a shaggy-footed horse was picking up leaves. He used a shovel. And each time he raised it to shoulder-height and emptied it into his cart, a few of the leaves went whirling away out of reach—like frightened butterflies. But she had no time to pretend anything of the kind. A new and a better plan!—this was what she must prepare. For—heart beating, hands trembling from haste—she had tried the telephone—and found it dead to every Hello!
But she was not discouraged. She was only balked.
The talking bird, the bee her mother kept in a bonnet, her father's harness, and the candles that burned at both ends—if she had only known about them that evening of her seventh anniversary! Ignoring Miss Royle's oft-repeated lesson that "Nice little girls do not ask questions," or "worry father and mother," how easy it would have been to say, "Fath-er, what little bird tells things about you?" and, "Moth-er, have you really got a bee in your bonnet?"
But—the questions could still be asked. She was balked only temporarily.
She got down and crossed the room to the white-and-gold writing-desk. Two photographs in silver frames stood upon it, flanking the rose-embossed calendar at either side. She took them down, one at a time, and looked at them earnestly.