"Cer-tain-ly _not_," said Thomas.

"And it'd give poor Miss Royle the neuralgia," (Jane and Miss Royle
might contend with each other; they made common cause against _her_.)

"But none of you'd _have_ to" assured Gwendolyn. "When I was at Johnnie
Blake's that once, just Potter went, and Rosa, and Cook. And Rosa
buttoned my dresses and gave me my bath, and--"

"So Rosa'll do _just_ as well as me," interrupted Jane, jealously.

"--And Potter passed the dishes at table," resumed Gwendolyn, ignoring
the remark; "and _he_ never hurried the best-tasting ones."

"Hear that will you, Thomas!" cried Jane. "Mr. _Potter_ never hurried
the best-tastin' ones!"

Thomas gave her a significant stare. "I tell you, a certain person is
growin' keen," he said in a low voice.

Jane took Gwendolyn by the arm. "Put all that Johnnie Blake nonsense out
of your head," she commanded. "Folks that live in the woods don't know
nothin'. They're silly and pokey."

Gwendolyn shook her head with deliberation. "Johnny Blake wasn't pokey,"
she denied. "He had a willow fishpole, and a string tied to it. And he
caught shiny fishes on the end of the string."

"Johnnie Blake!" sniffed Jane. "Oh, I know all about _him_. Rosa told
me. He's a common, poor little boy. And"--severely--"I, for _one_, can't