Gwendolyn left the school-room door for the one opening on the hall.

In the hall were shaded lights.  Light streamed up the bronze shaft.  Gwendolyn put her face against the scrolls and peered down.  The cage was far below.  And all was still.

The stairs wound their carpeted length before her.  She slipped from one step to another warily, one hand on the polished banisters to steady herself, the other carrying her slippers.  At the next floor she stopped before crossing the hall—­to peer back over a shoulder, to peer ahead down the second flight.

Outside the high carved door of the library she stopped and put on the slippers.  And she could not forbear wishing that she knew which was really her best foot, so that she might put it forward.  But there was no time for conjectures.  She bore down with both hands on the huge knob, and pressed her light weight against the panels.  The heavy door swung open.  She stole in.

The library had three windows that looked upon the side street.  These windows were all set together, the middle one being built out farther than the other two, so as to form an embrasure.  Over against these windows, in the shallow bow they formed, was a desk, of dark wood, and glass-topped.  It was scattered with papers and books.  Before it sat her father.

The moment her eyes fell upon him she realized that she had not come any too soon.  For his shoulders were bent as from a great weight.  His head was bowed.  His face was covered by his hands.

She went forward swiftly.  When she was between the desk and the windows she stopped, but did not speak.  She kept her gray eyes on those shielding hands.

Presently he sighed, straightened on his chair, and looked at her.

For one instant Gwendolyn did not move—­though her heart beat so wildly that it stirred the lace ruffles of her dressing-gown.  Then, remembering dancing instructions, she curtsied.

A smile softened the stern lines of her father’s mouth.  It traveled up his cheeks in little ripples, and half shut his tired eyes.  He put out a hand.

“Why, hello, daughter,” he said wearily, but fondly.

She felt an almost uncontrollable desire to throw out her arms to him, to clasp his neck, to cry, “Oh, daddy! daddy!  I don’t want them to hurt you!” But she conquered it, her underlip in her teeth, and put a small hand in his outstretched one gravely.

“I—­I heard the man calling,” she began timidly.  “And I—­I thought maybe the bears down in your street—­”

“Ah, the bears!” He gave a bitter laugh.

So Miss Royle had told the truth!  The hand in his tightened its hold.  “Have the bears ever frightened you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He did not answer at once, but put his head on one side and looked at her—­for a full half-minute.  Then he nodded.  “Yes,” he said; “yes, dear,—­once or twice.”

She had planned to spy out at least a strap of the harness he wore; to examine closely what sort of candles, if any, he burned in the seclusion of the library.  Now she forgot to do either; could not have seen if she had tried.  For her eyes were swimming, blinding her.