"Miss Gloria," he said, in an awed voice, as he took the key and fitted
it for her, "don't you go to feeling like that." Suddenly he was a man
in his protective earnestness. "It ain't nothin' to you."

But Gloria had passed him and was already ascending the broad flight of
stairs leading from the reception hall. She had forgotten her key, she
had forgotten to close the door. Dinney thoughtfully took the key out
and placed it on a stand near. Then closing the door after him, he went
slowly down the steps.

Somehow the brightness had gone from the day--he knew not why. But
it was gone. He turned toward Pleasant Street--Gloria's "Treeless
Street"--but there was no whistle now upon his lips.




CHAPTER VII.

It was a white-faced girl that appeared before Walter McAndrew and his
wife as they were seated at the dining-room table. Gloria had stood what
seemed to her an age by the window in her room, looking down upon the
card Dinney had left with her. At last she threw off her hat and jacket,
and, turning, went below.

As Mr. McAndrew caught sight of the white, strained face of the girl he
pushed back his chair and sprang to his feet.

"What is it?" he exclaimed.