had come to the rapid decision that a
trip to the West just now would be good for Gloria--more likely than
anything else to eradicate impressions of unpleasant Pleasant Street.
Gloria's impressions were apt to come and go easily, they reasoned, and
it was important for this one to go.

"You were going away, anyway, and I suppose I can go too, even if it is
hot," his wife had sighed in gentle renunciation of her own comfort. As
for Gloria--the child was always delighted with variety and change. No
trouble about Gloria!

Ten years earlier, when, close upon the death of his beloved young wife,
Gloria's father had slipped out of life, the orphan of seven years had
been given into Mr. McAndrews' charge, to be loved and petted, while Mr.
McAndrews was given her generous little fortune to husband and watch
over. It had been a beautiful home for Gloria; unquestioningly she had
accepted all its comforts and love. Yet Gloria was not selfish--only
young. Gloria's father had been a keen business man, and the investments
of his money as he earned it had been of the kind that fatten men's
pocketbooks, however lean they may make the bodies of other men.

For the time, Treeless Street, lined with little children, vanished from
Gloria's mind. The journey she began so promptly was a new one to her,
and with the first appearance of daylight the first morning she was
ready to enjoy it. Unlike Aunt Em, she was fresh and vigorous after the
night in the sleeper; she did not even dream of her recent discoveries
in streets. No old-faced little boys in reefed man-trousers appealed to
her sleeping pity.

[Illustration: It would be something interesting to do.]

"Best thing we could have done," whispered Uncle Em to his wife,
watching the girl's animated face. "But I'm afraid it's going to be
tough on you, my dear."

"Never mind me," smiled back his wife cheerfully. She was at that moment
warm and wearied, with a dull headache with which to begin the day. But
Aunt Em was the sort of woman who courts discomforts which to her loved
ones masquerade in the guise of comforts. She had never been given a
daughter of her own to make sacrifices for; she must make the most of
Gloria.

"I wish you liked to travel as well as Gloria and I do, my dear." His
wife did not like to travel at all; it was a species of torture to her.

"I like to have you and Gloria like it," she smiled.

* * * * *

A few days after the newn