d then, with a wild
beating of his pinions, he sprang sidewise to the shining bars of the
cage, and hung there, panting.

She watched him for a time; made a slow survey of the nursery next,--and
sighed.

"Poor thing!" she murmured.

She heard the rustle of silk skirts from the direction of the
school-room. Hastily she shook out the embroidered handkerchief and put
it against her eyes.

A door opened. "There will be no lessons this afternoon, Gwendolyn." It
was Miss Royle's voice.

Gwendolyn did not speak. But she lowered the handkerchief a trifle--and
noted that the governess was dressed for going out--in a glistening
black silk plentifully ornamented with jet _paillettes_.

Miss Royle rustled her way to the pier-glass to have a last look at her
bonnet. It was a poke, with a quilted ribbon circling its brim, and some
lace arranged fluffily. It did not reach many inches above the spot
where Gwendolyn had drawn the ink-line, for Miss Royle was small. When
she had given the poke a pat here and a touch there, she leaned forward
to get a better view of her face. She had a pale, thin face and thin
faded hair. On either side of a high bony nose were set her pale-blue
eyes. Shutting them in, and perched on the thinnest part of her nose,
were silver-circled spectacles.

"I'm very glad I can give you a half-holiday, dear," she went on. But
her tone was somewhat sorrowful. She detached a small leaf of paper from
a tiny book in her hand-bag and rubbed it across her forehead. "For my
neuralgia is _much_ worse to-day." She coughed once or twice behind a
lisle-gloved hand, snapped the clasp of her hand-bag and started toward
the hall door.

It was now that for the first time she looked at Gwendolyn--and caught
sight of the bowed head, the grief-flushed cheeks, the suspended
handkerchief. She stopped short.

"Gwendolyn!" she exclaimed, annoyed. "I _hope_ you're not going to be
cross and troublesome, and make it impossible for me to have a couple of
hours to myself this afternoon--especially when I'm suffering." Then,
coaxingly, "You can amuse yourself with one of your nice pretend-games,
dear."

From under long up-curling lashes Gwendolyn regarded her in silence.

"I've planned to lunch out," went on Miss Royle. "But you won't mind,
_will_ you, dear Gwendolyn?" plaintively. "For I'll be back at tea-time.
And besides"--growing brighter--"you're to have--what do you think!--the
birthday cake Cook has made."

"I _hate_ ca