riding-coat.

"They ain't makin' pockets in little girls' dresses this year," said
Jane, "Come! Come!"

"'They,'" repeated Gwendolyn. "Who are 'They'? I'd like to know; 'cause
I could telephone 'em and--"

"Hush your nonsense!" bade Jane. Then, catching at the delicate square
of linen in Gwendolyn's hand, "How'd you git ink smeared over your
handkerchief? What do you suppose your mamma'd say if she was to come
upon it? _I'd_ be blamed--_as_ usual!"

"Who are They'?" persisted Gwendolyn. "'They' do so _many_ things. And I
want to tell 'em that I like pockets in _all_ my dresses."

Jane ignored the question.

"Yesterday you said 'They' would send us soda-water," went on
Gwendolyn--talking to herself now, rather than to the nurse. "And I'd
like to know where 'They' _find_ soda-water." Whereupon she fell to
pondering the question. Evidently this, like many another propounded to
Jane or Miss Royle; to Thomas; to her music-teacher, Miss Brown; to
Mademoiselle Du Bois, her French teacher; and to her teacher of German,
was one that was meant to remain a secret of the grown-ups.

Jane, having unbuttoned the riding-coat, pulled at the small black
boots. She was also talking to herself, for her lips moved.

The moment Gwendolyn caught sight of her unshod feet, she had a new