beside the chattering monkey, she had sung and danced and scrambled
for pennies and shaken a tambourine, and generally conducted herself
like a _debutante_ maenad.

That had been a glorious day. She recalled it now smoulderingly,
resentfully. Different, indeed, was the tragic present. No one to play
with--that was bad enough. But there were still worse conditions. She
was not even allowed to play by herself! Rover had been banished to a
neighbor's, the kitten had been lent generously to the Joyce children,
her human playmates had been warned off the premises, and Genevieve
Maud had been urged to be a dear little girl and keep very, very quiet
because mamma was sick. As if this was not enough, fate drove its
relentless knife and gave it a final twist. Far back in a corner of
the garden where she lay, almost hidden by the drooping branches of an
old willow, sat her two sisters, Helen Adeline and Grace Margaret,
highly superior beings of a stately dignity even beyond their ripe
ages of eleven and nine years. They were too old to play with little
girls, as they had frequently mentioned to Genevieve Maud, but they
were not wholly beyond the power of her spell, and there had been
occasions when they had so far forgotten themselves as to descend to
her level and enjoy doll tea-parties and similar infantile pleasures.
To-day, however, they were of a remoteness. Their plump backs were
turned to her, their heads were close together, and on the soft
afternoon breeze that floated over the garden were borne sibilant
whispers. They were telling each other secrets--secrets from which
Genevieve Maud, by reason of her tender years, was irrevocably shut
out.

Genevieve Maud sat up suddenly in the flower-bed as the full horror of
this truth burst upon her, and then briskly entered into action