Harcourt responded.
At this point Gwen rushed up the stairs, stamping on every stair, and
dashed into the room.
"I'm glad she's gone!" she cried, flinging herself down on a chair
near the window, a frown making her look as unpleasant as possible.
"Who was that child?" her mother asked, as she bent over her, kissing
her flushed face, and brushing a yellow curl back from her forehead.
"She's come to Avondale to stay all Winter with Princess Polly, and
with Rose Atherton. I wanted to know her, I mean I _thought_ I did,
but now I don't. I brought her in to see the portraits in our hall,
and just for fun I told her that the picture of the little brown eyed
girl was me.
"She wouldn't believe it, and that made me mad. Of course it really
wasn't a portrait of me, but if I _said_ it was, she ought to believe
it?"
"My precious darling!" cried Mrs. Harcourt, "the children _never_ seem
to be able to understand your wonderful imagination. The child was
absurd to go off leaving you so unhappy. I'll ask Mrs. Sherwood what
sort of child she is.
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