now that she was face to face with her daring plan, gloria was frightened at its magnitude.

“but dad has got to go,” she kept reminding herself, “and that is the only thing that really matters.”

circumstances favored her strategy; that far-away look in her dark eyes was but the sign of her otherwise hidden anxiety, all the unaccountable gloom and forecast of homesickness that so strangely enveloped gloria since that afternoon visit to her aunt harriet’s home, was now coming to a crisis, and in the few days that remained before she should leave her barbend home, the little girl so lately a care-free youngster, was suddenly grown up, with the responsibility of keen, poignant anxiety.

she could not possibly confide in jane, for jane would have opposed her out of sheer loving kindness. and gloria had to use the utmost caution to keep her dad from suspecting the merest hint of her actual plan; of her other friends tom was not wise enough, neither was millie, therefore she simply had to fight it out alone.

two days after the launch picnic a telegram from the new york office notified mr. doane of an earlier sailing than he was prepared for. he was at home arranging for the renting of their little house, all furnished, to a reliable family who wanted to try a winter at the beach. benjamin hardy and his wife margaret seemed to live for the pleasure they gave and received to and from their son benjamin, junior. this son was a nature student; he wanted to stay by the ocean for a wild, blustery winter, and the doane cottage situated far enough inland to be comfortable and far enough out to be picturesque, suited mr. and mrs. hardy and the son, perfectly.

mr. doane hardly knew how to tell gloria that he had to leave her before the time originally arranged, but when he romped off to the orchard and she followed, helped her to spring up into her childhood nook in the big bulky apple tree, then he attempted to break the news.

“i know it’s a shame,” he said contritely, “but the old boat is going to toot off two days ahead of time.”

“oh, that’s all right, dad,” replied gloria brightly.

he looked at her in perplexity. “not really anxious to get rid of the old bear—”

“daddy-kins!” and she fell from the tree into his arms. “you know every minute will be an hour and every hour a day—”

“i know, darling,” he assured her, embracing her fondly, “but i can’t help being jealous of the new folks. sure you are going to like it all?”

“why, daddy doane—”

“because i’ve left it all to you and faithful jane and your aunt hattie,” he continued. “i know they’ll take care of you, for there’s their own girl only two years older. but you see, girlie, you and i have been such cast iron pals.” they were now both sitting on a log—the apple tree cut down last year—and about them the twilight etched pictures in shadowy outlines. gloria clung to her father with pathetic tenderness, yet, when he said he must go earlier a look of relief seemed to flash across her serious young face.

“i know how it is, little girl,” he ruminated.

“when you have to do a very hard thing you like to get it done with—”

“that’s it,” she sighed. “i have always felt that funerals would be easier to bear if folks didn’t think about them for day’s ahead—”

“funerals!”

she laughed—she felt obliged to. why had she said such a morbid thing as that?

“oh, you know, dad, i’m just silly. the worst thing just now is that you and i are going—to—separate, and the other worst thing is always—that.” she struggled to explain.

“i know, sweetheart, i know.” a father can be so understanding.

for some moments they sat there not even breaking their sanctuary with an audible sigh, then jane’s voice aroused them and they went back to see about locking the store room.

the very next day he was gone! and a crumpled little heap of palpitating sorrow was gloria doane!

“don’t mind me, jane, please don’t mind me,” she wailed, “i’ve just got—to cry—or i’ll choke!” she sobbed, shaking and shuddering in her grief as if the torrent would never leave her until it had consumed every ray of happiness hidden in the most secret recesses of her throbbing heart.

“but you’ll make yourself ill,” murmured jane. “if your father knew you were going to take it like this—”

“jane, listen!” and gloria struggled bravely with the torrent of grief. “my father has sacrificed so much for me. ever since he has been old enough to know what he wanted, he couldn’t have it.” she paused to choke back tears. “and i have been determined ever since i could know what—i wanted, that he should have his chance.” her voice rang out with heroic determination.

jane gazed in wonder at the girl so lately her baby-charge, her little wild flower gloria! but she did not interrupt.

“and now he’s gone—”

the dark head buried itself again in the patched silk cushion, and jane patted the heaving shoulders, too perplexed to offer advice, and too confused to know how to cope with the new gloria, so suddenly grown up, prepared to face the brunt of her heroic sacrifice.

a few minutes later the girl raised her head.

“there!” she exclaimed. “i guess the storm is over. it’s been gathering for days and i just had to—turn it loose. now, janie dear, i’ll be good!” an emphatic little hug gave the anxious jane further assurance, and when her strong arms, that had so often kept danger from the girl, now wound around the loved form with renewed promise, loyally and affectionately, jane asked:

“glory dear, can’t you tell nanty? what—is wrong?”

instantly gloria was on the defensive. she affected to laugh but the sound was false and only made matters worse.

“why, nanty morgan! are you getting—morbid?” choked gloria. “now daddy’s gone! he’ll be out on the big ocean soon and he has wanted that glorious sail so long!” she paused and glared at the picture that stood in its little gold frame on the round table in the bay window. “and when he has made his dream come true, what—could be wrong, nanty?”

“i know you love your daddy with a double love, glory darling, but somehow i know you too,” said jane wisely, “and it seems to me—”

she stopped and straightened the cushion so lately dampened with gloria’s tears and crushed with her first real heartbreak—“well, glory darling, jane will be watching, even from a distance, and if you don’t get fair play—”

the tone of voice was full of challenge. instantly gloria looked alarmed.

“now, nanty, you surely wouldn’t go fussing around aunt harriet’s,” she said. “you know what a nerve-nest her house is.”

“yes, i know. your father and your aunt’s husband were boyhood chums, they married sisters,” jane said reminiscently. “and they’ve always been great friends since, but your aunt harriet is—well, she’s different. she seems to live for that haughty daughter of hers.”

“yes, i know,” agreed gloria.

“but your uncle charley? he’ll be sure to see you have fair play, glory,” continued jane.

“yes, i know,” said gloria again, still lost in abstraction.

“and you’ll love him too, now that you have to be satisfied with long waits between your own daddy’s letters.”

“oh, yes, i do love uncle charley he’s a whole lot like dad, only of course, he isn’t dad,” and the picture in its golden frame was pressed fondly against trembling lips.

“well, anyhow, dad, i’ve made your dream come true,” sighed the girl, already enveloped in the mist-haunting loneliness.