CHAPTER THIRD.

GLADYS.

While they were still talking matters over, Gladys Bowen, a little girl who lived in the house, came to ask if Frances might play with her; and Frances, who had not had a playmate of her own age for some time, was very ready to go. They had once or twice spoken rather shyly to each other, and she thought Gladys's golden curls perfectly beautiful.

"Would you like to come upstairs and see my dolls, or shall we go down to the reception room?" Gladys asked, adding, "My Uncle Jo owns this house, and he lets me go where I please."

"I'd like to see the dolls," Frances said, much impressed by the uncle who owned a hotel.

Her companion led the way to a room where a lady in an elaborate house-gown sat in an arm-chair reading. "Mamma, I have brought Frances to see my dolls," she announced.

"How do you do, Frances.— Very well, Gladys, but I don't want you to worry me. You must play in the other room." Mrs. Bowen spoke in a languid tone, and returned to her book, but she looked up again to say, "That is a pretty dress you have on, Frances."

The child looked down at the red challis she wore, not knowing what reply to make.

"But you are stylish, as Gladys is, I am thankful to say," the lady continued. "You look well together, you are dark and she so fair."

"Come on," Gladys called impatiently from the door, and Frances followed, feeling that she ought to have said something to Mrs. Bowen.

"I'll show you Marguerite first; she's my handsomest doll. Uncle Jo gave her to me, and she cost twenty-five dollars."

Frances caught her breath at the idea of such a doll, but was a little disappointed when her hostess took from a drawer a fine lady, whose hair was done up in a French twist, and whose silk gown was made with a train. She was certainly very elegant, however, and her muff and collar were sure enough sealskin, as Gladys explained.

"She is beautiful, but I believe I like little girl dolls best," Frances said.

Gladys brought out others of all varieties and sizes, and while her visitor examined them, she herself talked on without a pause.

"Where did you get your name?" she asked.

Frances, who was adjusting a baby's cap, replied that she was named for her great-grandmother.

"Are you? How funny! Mamma named me for a lady in a book—Gladys Isabel. She doesn't like common names."

Frances wondered if Gladys thought her name common, and for a moment she wished she had been called something more romantic.

"There is a girl who lives here in the winter," continued the chatterbox, "whose name is Mathilde. Isn't that funny? It's French—and she has the loveliest clothes! I wish you could see her—she hasn't come yet. And just think! she has diamond earrings. Have you any diamonds?"

Frances shook her head, feeling very insignificant beside a girl with a French name and diamond earrings.

"I have a diamond ring, but mamma won't let me wear it all the time for fear I'll lose it," said Gladys. "Haven't you any rings?" and she glanced at the plump little hands of her guest.

"I have one, but it is too small for me now. I don't care very much for rings," was the reply.

"Don't you? I do. Mamma has ever so many. If you won't tell I'll tell you something," Gladys went on; "Uncle Jo is going to give me a party at Christmas, and if you are here I'll invite you. It is to be just like a grown-up party."

"Do you go to school?" Frances asked.

"Everyday school? Yes; but I don't like it. I haven't started yet."

"I think I'll have to go now," said Frances, rising; "I hope you will come to see me, Gladys. I have only one doll with me, but I have some games and books."

"I don't care for books, but I'll come; and if Mathilde is here maybe I'll bring her."

Frances went downstairs with a sober face. She had intended to tell Gladys the story of The Golden Doorway, and about the Spectacle Man, but she had not had a chance, and now she felt that these things would probably seem tame and uninteresting to a young person of such varied experience.

"Has my little girl had a good time?" Mrs. Morrison asked.

"Y-es, mother, Gladys has some of the prettiest dolls you ever saw, but they are too dressed up to have much fun with, and she didn't seem to want to play."

"Perhaps she doesn't know how to have a really good time, Wink; some persons don't."

"I know one thing; she hasn't a darling mother like you!" and Frances emphasized her words with an ardent hug.

"Very few have, Wink," remarked her father, coming in with his hands full of papers.

"Thank you both for your kind appreciation," said Mrs. Morrison, laughing. "What do you expect to find in those papers, Jack?"

"I am going to look up advertisements."

"What for, daddy?" Frances asked, dancing about on tiptoe.

"A place for you and mother while I run off and leave you. Listen to this: 'Wanted: Occupants for a small, partially furnished flat. All conveniences, terms reasonable. Apply at 432 Walnut Street.'"

"The Spectacle Man's! the Spectacle Man's!" cried Frances, clapping her hands. "Let's go there, it's lovely!"

"How do you know?" asked her father and mother in the same breath, and then she explained how he had written the advertisement while she was waiting for the storm to be over.

"Partially furnished—it might do. I mean, of course, if it is nice," said Mrs. Morrison.

"It is too far down town," objected her husband.

"Oh, father, no, it isn't! It is just a beautiful place, and the Spectacle Man will show me his Toby jugs and things, and there's the cat,—please let's go!"

"Of course if there is a Toby jug and a cat, there's nothing else to be desired," said Mr. Morrison, gravely, pinching the cheek of his enthusiastic daughter. However, he promised that bright and early next day they would go to look at this flat.