endolyn had often secretly coveted the Superintendent's residence in
the Park (so that, instead of straggling along a concrete pavement at
rare intervals, held captive by the hand that was in Jane's, she might
always have the right to race willy-nilly across the grass--chase the
tame squirrels to shelter--_even climb a tree_). But more earnestly did
she covet a house beyond the precipice. Were there not trees there? and
rocks? Without doubt there were Johnnie Blake glades as well--glades
bright with flowers, and green with lacy ferns. For of these glades
Gwendolyn had received proof: Following a sprinkle on a cool day, a
light west wind brought a butterfly against a pane of the front window.
When Gwendolyn raised the sash, the butterfly fluttered in, throwing off
a jeweled drop as he came and alighted upon the dull rose and green of a
flower in the border of the nursery rug. His wings were flat together
and he was tipped to one side, like a skiff with tinted sails. But when
the sails were dry, and parted once more, and sunlight had replaced
shower, he launched forth from the pink landing-place of Gwendolyn's
palm--and sped away and away, due west!

But the view from the _side_ window!

Beyond the line of step-houses, and beyond the buildings where the maids
hung their wash, were roofs. They seemed to touch, to have no streets
between them anywhere. They reached as far as Gwendolyn could see. They
were all heights, all shapes, all varieties as to tops--some being
level, others coming to a point at one corner, a few ending in a tower.
One tower, which was square, and on the outer-most edge of the roofs,
had a clock in its summit. When night settled, a light sprang up behind
the clock--a great, round light that was like a single shining eye.

She did not know the proper name for all those acres of roof. But Jane
called them Down-Town.

At all times they were fascinating. Of a winter's day the snow whitened
them into beauty. The rain washed them with its slanting down-pour till
their metal sheeting glistened as brightly as the sides of the General's
horse. The sea-fog, advanced by the wind, blotted out all but the
nearest, wrapped these in torn shrouds, and heaped itself about the
dun-breathed chimneys like the smoke of a hundred fires.

She loved the roofs far more than Drive or River or wooded expanse; more
because they meant so much--and that without her having to do much
pretending. For across them, in some building