"We hate a sneak," observed Miss Royle, blandly.
The little figure went rigid. "And I hate you," she cried shrilly. Then buried her face in her hands.
"Gwen-do-lyn'!" It was a solemn and horrified warning.
Gwendolyn turned and walked slowly toward the window-seat. Her breast was heaving.
"Come back and sit in this chair," bade the governess.
Gwendolyn paused, but did not turn.
"Shall I fetch you?"
"Can't I even look out of the window?" burst forth Gwendolyn. "Oh, you—you—you—" (she yearned to say Snake-in-the—grass!—yet dared not) "you mean! mean!" Her voice rose to a scream.
Miss Royle stood up. "I see that you want to go to bed," she declared.
The torrent of Gwendolyn's anger and resentment surged and broke bounds. She pivoted, arms tossing, face aflame. There were those wicked words across the river that each night burned themselves upon the dark. She had never pronounced them aloud before; but—