The Poor Little Rich Girl | Page 6

dolls; dolls from China, with slanted eyes and a queue; dolls from Japan, in gayly figured kimonos; Dutch dolls--a boy and a girl; a French doll in an exquisite frock; a Russian; an Indian; a Spaniard. A second shelf held a shiny red-and-black peg-top, a black wooden snake beside its lead-colored pipe-like case; a tin soldier in an English uniform--red coat, and pill-box cap held on by a chin-strap; a second uniformed tin man who turned somersaults, but in repose stood upon his head; a black dog on wheels, with great floppy ears; and a half-dozen downy ducklings acquired at Easter.
"Much good takin' anything'll do!" grumbled Jane. Then, plucking crossly at a muslin sleeve, "Well, what do you want? Your French doll? Speak up!"
"I don't want anything," asserted Gwendolyn, "--long as I can't have my Puffy Bear any more." There was a wide vacant place beside the dog with the large ears.
"The little beast got shabby," explained Thomas, "and I was compelled to throw him away along with the old linen-hamper. Like as not some poor little child has him now."
She considered the statement, gray eyes wistful. Then, "I liked him," she said huskily. "He was old and squashy, and it wouldn't hurt him to walk up the Drive, right in the path where the horses go. The dirt is loose there, like it was in the road at Johnnie Blake's in the country. I could scuff it with my shoes."
"You could scuff it and I could wear myself out cleanin', I suppose," retorted Jane. "And like as not run the risk of gittin' some bad germs on my hands, and dyin' of 'em. From what Rosa says, it was downright shameful the way you muddied your clothes, and tore 'em, and messed in the water after nasty tad-poles that week you was up country. I won't allow you to treat your beautiful dresses like that, or climb about, or let the hot sun git at you."
"I'm going to walk."
Silence; but silence palpitant with thought. Then Jane threw up her head--as if seized with an inspiration. "You're going to walk?" said she. "All right! All right! Walk if you want to." She made as if to set out. "Go ahead! But, my dear," (she dropped her voice in fear) "you'll no more'n git to the next corner when _somebody'll steal you!_"
Gwendolyn was silent for a long moment. She glanced from Jane to Thomas, from Thomas to Jane, and crooked her fingers in and out of her twisted handkerchief.
"But, Jane," she said finally, "the dogs go out walking--and--and nobody steals the dogs."
"Hear the silly child!" cried Jane. "Nobody steals the dogs! Why, if anybody was to steal the dogs what good would it do 'em? They're only Pomeranians anyhow, and Madam could go straight out and buy more. Besides, like as not Pomeranians won't be stylish next year, and so Madam wouldn't care two snaps. She'd go buy the latest thing in poodles, or else a fine collie, or a spaniel or a Spitz."
"But other little girls walk all the time," insisted Gwendolyn, "and nobody steals them."
Jane crossed her knees, pursed her mouth and folded her arms. "Well, Thomas," she said, shaking her head, "I guess after all that I'll have to tell her."
"Ah, yes, I suppose so," agreed Thomas. His tone was funereal.
Gwendolyn looked from one to the other.
"I haven't wanted to," continued Jane, dolefully. "You know that. But now she forces me to do it. Though I'm as sorry as sorry can be."
Thomas had just taken his portion of cake in one great mouthful. "Fo'm my," he chimed in.
Gwendolyn looked concerned. "But I'm seven," she reiterated.
"Seven?" said Jane. "What has that got to do with it? Age don't matter."
Gwendolyn did not flinch.
"You said nobody steals other little girls," went on Jane. "It ain't true. Poor little girls and boys, _no_body steals. You can see 'em runnin' around loose everywheres. But it's different when a little girl's papa is made of money."
"So much money," added Thomas, "that it fairly makes me palm itch." Whereat he fell to rubbing one open hand against a corner of the piano.
Gwendolyn reflected a moment. Then, "But my fath-er isn't made of money,"--she lingered a little, tenderly, over the word father, pronouncing it as if it were two words. "I know he isn't. When I was at Johnnie Blake's cottage, we went fishing, and fath-er rolled up his sleeves. And his arms were strong; and red, like Jane's."
Thomas sniggered.
But Jane gestured impatiently. Then, making scared eyes, "What has that got to do," she demanded, "_with the wicked men that keep watch of this house?_"
Gwendolyn swallowed. "What wicked men?" she questioned apprehensively.
"Ah-ha!" triumphed Jane. "I thought that'd catch you! Now just let me ask you another question: _Why are there bars on the basement windows?_"
Gwendolyn's lips