“I’m very glad I can give you a half-holiday, dear,” she went on.  But her tone was somewhat sorrowful.  She detached a small leaf of paper from a tiny book in her hand-bag and rubbed it across her forehead.  “For my neuralgia is much worse to-day.”  She coughed once or twice behind a lisle-gloved hand, snapped the clasp of her hand-bag and started toward the hall door.

It was now that for the first time she looked at Gwendolyn—­and caught sight of the bowed head, the grief-flushed cheeks, the suspended handkerchief.  She stopped short.

“Gwendolyn!” she exclaimed, annoyed.  “I hope you’re not going to be cross and troublesome, and make it impossible for me to have a couple of hours to myself this afternoon—­especially when I’m suffering.”  Then, coaxingly, “You can amuse yourself with one of your nice pretend-games, dear.”

From under long up-curling lashes Gwendolyn regarded her in silence.

“I’ve planned to lunch out,” went on Miss Royle.  “But you won’t mind, will you, dear Gwendolyn?” plaintively.  “For I’ll be back at tea-time.  And besides”—­growing brighter—­“you’re to have—­what do you think!—­the birthday cake Cook has made.”

“I hate cake!” burst out Gwendolyn; and covered her eyes once more.

“Gwen-do-lyn!” breathed Miss Royle.

Gwendolyn sat very still.

“How can you be so naughty!  Oh, it’s really wicked and ungrateful of you to be fretting and complaining—­you who have so many blessings!  But you don’t appreciate them because you’ve always had them.  Well,”—­mournfully solicitous—­“I trust they’ll never be taken from you, my child.  Ah, I know how bitter such a loss is!  I haven’t always been in my present circumstances, compelled to go out among strangers to earn a scant living.  Once—­”

Here she was interrupted.  The door from the school-room swung wide with a bang.  Gwendolyn, looking up, saw her nurse.

Jane was in sharp contrast to Miss Royle—­taller and stocky, with broad shoulders and big arms.  As she halted against the open school-room door, her hair was as ruddy as the panel that made a background for it.  And she had reddish eyes, and a full round face.  In the midst of her face, and all out of proportion to it, was her short turned-up nose, which was plentifully sprinkled with freckles.

“So you’re goin’ out?” she began angrily, addressing the governess.

Miss Royle retreated a step.  “Just for a—­a couple of hours,” she explained.

Jane’s face grew almost as red as her hair.  Slamming the school-room door behind her, she advanced.  “I suppose it’s the neuralgia again,” she suggested with quiet heat.

The color stole into Miss Royle’s pale cheeks.  She coughed.  “It is a little worse than usual this afternoon,” she admitted.

“I thought so,” said Jane.  “It’s always worse—­on bargain-days.”