The Poor Little Rich Girl | Page 5

the table all day, Miss.... There, Thomas! That'll be all the minced chicken she can have."
"But I took just one little spoonful," protested Gwendolyn, earnestly. "I wanted more, but Thomas held it 'way up, and--"
"Do you want to be sick?" demanded Jane. "And have a doctor come?"
Gwendolyn raised frightened eyes. A doctor had been called once in the dim past, when she was a baby, racked by colic and budding teeth. She did not remember him. But since the era of short clothes she had been mercifully spared his visits. "N-n-no!" she faltered.
"Well, you look out or I'll git one on the 'phone. And you'll be sorry the rest of your life.... Take the chicken away, Thomas. 'Out of sight is'--you know the sayin'. (It's a pity there ain't some way to keep it hot.)"
"A bit of cold fowl don't go so bad," said Thomas, reassuringly. And to Gwendolyn, "Here's more of the potatoes souffles, Miss Gwendolyn,--very tasty and fillin'."
Gwendolyn put up a hand and pushed the proffered dish aside.
"Now, no temper," warned Jane, rising. "Too much meat ain't good for children. Your mamma herself would say that. Come! See that nice potatoes and cream gravy on your plate. And there you set cryin'!"
Thomas had an idea. "Shall I fetch the cake?" he asked in a loud whisper.
Jane nodded.
He disappeared--to reappear at once with a round frosted cake that had a border of pink icing upon its glazed white top. And set within the circle of the border were seven pink candles, all alight.
"Oh, look! Look!" cried Jane, excitedly, pulling Gwendolyn's hand away from her eyes. "Isn't it a beautiful cake! You shall have a bi-i-ig piece."
Those seven small candles dispelled the gloom. With tears on her cheeks, but all eager and smiling once more, Gwendolyn blew the candles out. And as she bent forward to puff at each tiny one, Jane held her bright hair back, for fear that a strand might get too near a flame.
"Oh, Jane," cried Gwendolyn, "when I blow like that, where do all the little lights go?"
"Did you ever hear such a question?" exclaimed Jane, appealing to Thomas.
He was cutting away at the cake. "Of course, Miss, you'd like me to have a bite of this," he said. "You know it was me that reminded Cook about bakin'--"
"Perhaps all the little lights go up under the big lamp-shade," went on Gwendolyn, too absorbed to listen to Thomas. "And make a big light." She started to get down from her chair to investigate.
"Now look here," said Jane irritably, "you'll just finish your dinner before you leave the table. Here's your cake. Eat it!"
Gwendolyn ate her slice daintily, using a fork.
Jane also ate a slice--holding it in her fingers. "There's ways of managin' a fairly jolly afternoon," she said from the depths of the arm-chair.
"You're speakin' of--er--?" asked Thomas, picking up cake crumbs with a damp finger-tip.
"Uh-huh."
"A certain party would have to go along," he reminded.
"Of course. But a ride's better'n nothin'."
"Shall I telephone for--?" Thomas brought a finger-bowl.
Gwendolyn stood up. A ride meant the limousine, with its screening top and little windows. The limousine meant a long, tiresome run at good speed through streets that she longed to travel afoot, slowly, with a stop here and a stop there, and a poke into things in general.
Her crimson cheeks spoke rebellion. "I want a walk this afternoon," she declared emphatically.
"Use your finger-bowl," said Jane. "Can't you never remember your manners?"
"I'm seven to-day," Gwendolyn went on, the tips of her fingers in the small basin of silver while her face was turned to Jane. "I'm seven and--and I'm grown-up."
"And you're splashin' water on the table-cloth. Look at you!"
"So," went on Gwendolyn, "I'm going to walk. I haven't walked for a whole, whole week."
"You can lean back in the car," began Jane enthusiastically, "and pretend you're a grand little Queen!"
"I don't want to be a Queen. I want to walk.
"Rich little girls don't hike along the streets like common poor little girls," informed Jane.
"I don't want to be a rich little girl,"--voice shrill with determination.
Jane went to shake her frilled apron into the gilded waste-basket beside Gwendolyn's writing-desk. "You can telephone any time now, Thomas," she said calmly.
Gwendolyn turned upon Thomas. "But I don't want to be shut up in the car this afternoon," she cried. "And I won't! I _won't!_ I WON'T!"
Jane gave a gasp of smothered rage. The reddish eyes blazed. "Do you want me to send for a great black bear?" she demanded.
At that Gwendolyn quailed. "No-o-o!"
Jane shot a glance toward Thomas. It invited suggestion.
"Let her take something along," he said under his breath, nodding toward a glass-fronted case of shelves that stood opposite Gwendolyn's bed.
Each shelf of the case was covered with toys. Along one sat a line of daintily clad dolls--black-haired dolls; golden-haired