ell.

The next moment the doors swung open, and Potter, white-haired, grave
and bent, stepped aside for them to pass. They crossed the threshold.

The dining-room was wide and long and lofty. Its wainscot was somberly
stained. Above the wainscot, the dull tapestried walls reached to a
ceiling richly panelled. The center of this dark setting was a long
table, glittering with china and crystal, bright with silver and roses,
and lighted by clusters of silk-shaded candles that reflected
themselves upon circular table mirrors. At the far end of the table sat
Gwendolyn's father, pale in his black dress-clothes, and haggard-eyed;
at the near end sat her mother, pink-cheeked and pretty, with jewels
about her bare throat and in her fair hair. And between the two, filling
the high-backed chairs on either side of the table, were strange men and
women.

Gwendolyn let go of Jane's hand and went toward her mother. Thither had
gone her first glance; her second had swept the whole length of the
board to her father's face. And now, without heeding any of the others,
her look circled swiftly from chair to chair--searching.

Not one was empty!

The gray eyes blurred. Yet she tried to smile. Close to that dear
presence, so delicately perfumed (with a haunting perfume that was a
very part of her mother's charm and beauty) she halted; and
curtsied--precisely as Monsieur Tellegen had taught her. And when the
white-satin bow bobbed above the level of the table once more, she
raised her face for a kiss.

A murmur went up and down the double row of chairs.

Gwendolyn's mother smiled radiantly. Her glance over the table was
proud. "This is my little daughter's seventh birthday anniversary," she
proclaimed.

To Gwendolyn the announcement was unexpected. But she was quick. Very
cautiously she lifted herself on her toes--just a little.

Another buzz of comment circled the board. "_Too_ sweet!" said one; and,
"_Cunning!_" and "Fine child, that!"

"Now, dear," encouraged her mother.

Gwendolyn would have liked to stand still and listen to the chorus of
praise. But there was something else to do.

She turned a corner of the table and started slowly along it, curtseying
at each chair. As she curtsied she said nothing, only bobbed the satin
bow and put out a small hand. And, "How do you do, darling!" said the
ladies, and "Ah, little Miss Gwendolyn!" said the men.

The last man on that side, however, said something different. (He, she
had