To Gwendolyn an interruption at any time was welcome.  This day it was doubly so.  She had learned nothing from Mademoiselle.  But Miss Brown—­She made toward the nursery, doing her newest dance step.

Miss Brown was stocky, with a firm tread and an eye of decision.  As Gwendolyn appeared, she was seated at the piano, her face raised (as if she were seeking out some spot on the ceiling), and her solid frame swaying from side to side in the ecstasy of performance.  Up and down the key-board of the instrument her plump hands galloped.

Gwendolyn paused beside the piano-seat.  The air was vibrant with melody.  The lifted face, the rocking, the ardent touch—­all these inspired hope.  The gray eyes were wide with eagerness.  Each corner of the rosy mouth was upturned.

The resounding notes of a march ended with a bang.  Miss Brown straightened—­got to her feet—­smiled down.

That smile gave Gwendolyn renewed encouragement.  They were alone.  She stood on tiptoe.  “Miss Brown,” she began, “did you ever hear of a—­a bee that some ladies carry in a—­”

Miss Brown’s smile of greeting went.  “Now, Gwendolyn,” she interrupted severely, “are you going to begin your usual silly, silly questions?”

Gwendolyn fell back a step.  “But I didn’t ask you a silly question day before yesterday,” she plead.  “I just wanted to know how anybody could call my German teacher Miss French.”

“Take your place, if you please,” bade Miss Brown curtly, “and don’t waste my time.”  She pointed a stubby finger at the piano-seat.

Gwendolyn climbed up, her cheeks scarlet with wounded dignity, her breast heaving with a rancor she dared not express.  “Do I have to play that old piece?” she asked.

“You must,”—­with rising inflection.

“Up at Johnnie Blake’s it sounded nice.  ’Cause my moth-er—­”

“Ready!” Miss Brown set the metronome to tick-tocking.  Then she consulted a watch.

Gwendolyn raised one hand to her face, and gulped.

“Come!  Come!  Put your fingers on the keys.”

“But my cheek itches.”

“Get your position, I say.”

Gwendolyn struck a spiritless chord.

Miss Brown gone, Gwendolyn sought the long window-seat and curled up among its cushions—­at the side which commanded the best view of the General.  Straight before that martial figure, on the bridle-path, a man with a dump-cart and a shaggy-footed horse was picking up leaves.  He used a shovel.  And each time he raised it to shoulder-height and emptied it into his cart, a few of the leaves went whirling away out of reach—­like frightened butterflies.  But she had no time to pretend anything of the kind.  A new and a better plan!—­this was what she must prepare.  For—­heart beating, hands trembling from haste—­she had tried the telephone—­and found it dead to every Hello!

But she was not discouraged.  She was only balked.