“Aren’t there kidnapers in the country, too?” asked Gwendolyn.  “I—­I guess I’d rather stay home.”

“You won’t see ’em in the country this time of day,” explained Jane.  “They’re all in town, huntin’ rich little children.  So on with the sweet new hat and a pretty coat!” She opened the door of the wardrobe.

Gwendolyn did not move.  But as she watched Jane the gray eyes filled with tears, which overflowed and trickled slowly down her cheeks.  “If—­if Thomas walked along with us,” she began, “could—­could anybody steal me then?”

Jane was taking out coat, hat and gloves.  “What would kidnapers care about Thomas?” she demanded contemptuously. “Sure, they’d steal you, and then they’d say to your father, ’Give! me a million dollars in cash if you want Miss Gwendolyn back.’  And if your father didn’t give the money on the spot, you’d be sold to gipsies, or—­or Chinamen.”

But Gwendolyn persisted.  “Thomas has killed el’phunts,” she reminded.  “Are—­are kidnapers worse than el’phunts?” She drew on her gloves.

Jane sat down and held out the coat.  It was of velvet.  “Now be still!” she commanded roughly.  “You’ll go in the machine if you go at all.  Do you hear that?”—­giving Gwendolyn a half-turn-about that nearly upset her.  “Do you think I’m goin’ to trapse over the hard pavements on my poor, tired feet just because you take your notions?”

Gwendolyn began to cry—­softly.  “Oh, I—­I thought I wouldn’t ever have to ride again wh-when I was seven,” she faltered, putting one white-gloved hand to her eyes.

“Stop that!” commanded Jane, again, “Dirtyin’ your gloves, you wasteful little thing!”

Now the big sobs came.  Down went the yellow head.

“Oh!  Oh!  Oh!” said Thomas.  “Little ladies never cry.”

“Walk! walk! walk!” scolded Jane, kneeling, and preparing to adjust the new hat.

The hat had wide ribbons that tied under the chin—­new, stiff ribbons.

“Johnnie Bu-Blake didn’t fasten his hat on like this,” wept Gwendolyn.  She moved her chin from side to side.  “He just had a—­a sh-shoe-string.”

Jane had finished.  “Johnnie Blake!  Johnnie Blake!  Johnnie Blake!” she mocked.  She gave Gwendolyn a little push toward the front window.  “Now, no more of your nonsense.  Go and be quiet for a few minutes.  And keep a’ eye out, will you, to see that there’s nobody layin’ in wait for us out in front?”

Gwendolyn went forward to the window-seat and climbed up among its cushions.  From there she looked down upon the Drive with its sloping, evenly-cut grass, its smooth, tawny road and soft brown bridle-path, and its curving walk, stone-walled on the outer side.  Beyond park and road and walk were tree-tops, bush-high above the wall.  And beyond these was the broad, slow-flowing river, with boats going to and fro upon its shimmering surface.  The farther side of the river was walled like the walk, only the wall was a cliff, sheer and dark and timber-edged.  And through this timber could be seen the roofs and chimneys of distant houses.