"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.