"Miss Gwendolyn!" exclaimed Thomas, astonished.

"I'm seven," declared Gwendolyn, struggling with the hat-elastic. "I'm
a whole year older than I was yesterday. And--and I'm grown-up."

An exasperating smile lifted Thomas's lip. "Oh, _are_ you!" he observed.

The hat settled, she met his look squarely. (Did he suspicion anything?)
"_Yes_. And you take the dogs out to walk. So"--she started to pass
him--"_I'm_ going to walk."

His hair was black and straight. Now it seemed fairly to bristle with
amazement. "I couldn't take you if you _was_ grown-up," he asserted
firmly, blocking her advance; "--leastways not without Miss Royle or
Jane'd say Yes. It'd be worth my job."

Gwendolyn lowered her eyes, stood a moment in indecision, then pulled
off the hat, tossed it aside, went back to the window, and sat down.

At one end of the seat, swung high on its gilded spring, danced the
dome-topped cage of her canary. Presently she raised her face to him. He
was traveling tirelessly from perch to cage-floor, from floor to trapeze
again. His wings were half lifted from his little body--the bright
yellow of her own hair. It was as if he were ready for flight. His round
black eyes were constantly turned toward the world beyond the window. He
perked his head inquiringly, and cheeped. Now and then, with a wild
beating of his pinions, he sprang sidewise to the shining bars of the
cage, and hung there, panting.

She watched him for a time; made a slow survey of the nursery next,--and