nook, very silent, now and then with a whisper from Gloria, awaiting the
coming of the bird.




_Chapter V_


"But, my darling daughter," gasped Mrs. Gaynor, "you don't in the least
understand what you are about!"

"But, my darling mother," mimicked Miss Gloria, light of tone but with
all of the calm assurance of her years, "I do know exactly what I am
about! I always do. And anyway," with a Frenchy little shrug which she
had adopted and adapted last season, "I am going."

"But," exclaimed her mother, already routed, as was inevitable, and now
looking toward the essential considerations, "what in the world will
every one say? And think?"

In the tall mirror before her Gloria regarded her boots and
riding-breeches critically. Then her little hat and the blue flannel
short. Too mannish? Never, with Gloria in them, an expression in very
charming curves of triumphant girlhood.

"What in the world was Mark King thinking of?" demanded her mother.

"What do you suppose?" said Gloria tranquilly "He would have been very
rude if he hadn't been thinking of your little daughter. Besides, he had