CHAPTER I.

Gloria sat in her favorite chair on the broad veranda. The shadow of the vines made a delicate tracery over her white dress. Gloria was lazily content. She had been comfortable and content for seventeen years.

“There's that queer little thing again, going off with her queer little bag!” Gloria's gaze dwelt on the house across the wide street. Down its steps a small, neat figure was tripping. Gloria recognized it as an old sight-acquaintance.

“I wish I could find out where she goes at just the same time every day! In all the blazing sun—ugh! I'll ask Aunt Em sometime. And that makes me think of what I want to ask Uncle Em!” It was natural that Aunt Em should remind one of Uncle Em. Gloria's thought of the two as the composite guardian of her important young peace and happiness—as well as money. For Gloria was rich.

“I suppose I might go down and ask him this morning. It's a bore, but perhaps it will pay. Abou Ben Adhem, I'll do it!”

Abou Ben Adhem, the great silver cat in her lap, blinked indifferently. He was Gloria's newest pet, so named with the superstitious fancy that it might have the effect of making “his tribe increase,” and Abou Ben Adhem's “tribe” was exceedingly valuable. Gloria set the big, warm weight gently down upon its embroidered cushion.

“Good-by, old dear. Be glad you aren't a human and don't have to go down town in a blazing sun!”

A few moments later the dainty girlish figure came out again, gloved and hatted. Aunt Em followed it to the door.

“Walk slowly, dear—just measure your steps! And be sure to take the car at the corner. Perhaps you can bring Uncle Walter back with you.”

It was only Gloria who called him Uncle Em. He was not really uncle anyway to Gloria, being merely her kind, good-natured, easily-coaxed guardian. But for ten years he and this sweet-faced elderly woman in the doorway had been father and mother to the orphaned girl.

“Of course he'll come, if I tell him to!” laughed back Gloria from the sidewalk. “Auntie, please ask Bergitta to come out and move Abou Ben's cushion into the shade when the sun gets round to him. He'd never condescend to move without the cushion.”

At the corner no car was in sight and Gloria proceeded at a leisurely pace to the settee that offered a comfortable waiting-place a block above. The small, neat person of the House Across the Street was there with her big, shabby bag. She moved over invitingly.

“But you'd better not sit down!” she said laughingly. “If you do, no car will ever come! I've been here a small age.”

The shabby bag between them attracted Gloria's curious gaze. It might contain so many different things—even a kit of unholy tools, jimmies and things! It looked decidedly like that kind of a bag.

“A fright, isn't it? If I ever got time, I could black it, or ink it, or something, but I never shall get the time. I don't wonder you look at it—everybody does.” “Oh!” Gloria hurried apologetically, “I didn't mean to be rude! I was just trying to make up my mind what was in it.”

“Well, did you?” The face of the small, neat person bubbled with soft laughter. Her hand went out and stroked the old bag's sides affectionately. “Give you three guesses!”

“I don't need but one!” laughed Gloria. A pleasant little intimacy seemed already established between the two of them.

“Well, guess one, then?”

“A—jimmy!”

“Gracious!” laughed the Small Person. “Do I look as bad as that? No,” growing suddenly quite grave, “you will have to guess again. I'll give you a cue—absorbent cotton.”

“Absorb—” began Gloria in surprise, but stopped. The bag was open under her eyes. She caught a confused glimpse of bottles and rolls of something carefully done up in white tissue, of a dark blue pasteboard box with a red cross on the visible end, of curiously-shaped scissors.

“See any jimmy?” queried the one beside her.

“No, but I don't know what I do see.”

“My dear—there's our car! Let me introduce you. The workbag, if you please, of the District Nurse, Mary Winship. I have not the pleasure—”

“Gloria Abercrombie,” bowed Gloria politely, but her eyes danced. She liked this small, neat Mary Winship. They got into the car together.

“I live right across the street,” Gloria added, when they were safely seated.

“So do I! I've seen you over there rocking a magnificent gray cat. Does it feel good?”

“The cat—Abou Ben Adhem? He's the warmest, softest thing!”

“No, sitting. I hardly ever do it, so I'm not a good judge. You always look so rested over there—it rests me to see you.”

The pleasant laugh jostled with the lurching of the car; it had the effect of being tremulous with some emotion, but there was nothing tremulous about the placid face beside Gloria.

“You poor dear!” Gloria burst out impetuously. “How tired to pieces you must get! I've pitied you every one of these hot days.”

“Don't!” smiled the other. “Pity my poor folks. Why, here's my street so soon!” She clambered down with her heavy bag and nodded back.

Gloria watched her trip away. The street she had stopped at was not a pleasant looking one; Gloria had time to see that it was lined with houses that leaned toward each other in an unattractive manner. And the children—the swift impression Gloria got was of a street lined, too, with little unattractive children.

“Not a tree on it,” she mused as the car jolted her on to Uncle Em's. “Think of no trees! And whole mobs of children, and such a day as this!” It was terribly hot. “I wonder what a District Nurse is? Well, I like 'em!”

Arrived at the great building among whose offices was that of Walter McAndrew, Attorney-at-Law, Gloria's thoughts were turned into a new channel. She remembered that she had come down town on important business, and it was up two flights in this office building where she was to transact it. Uncle Em was Walter McAndrew, Attorney-at-Law.

She took the elevator and was presently at the right door. She went in unceremoniously; it was one of her favorite visiting-places. Mr. McAndrew looked up and gravely bowed.

“Take a seat, madam, and I will be at liberty in a few moments,” he began politely. But “Madam's” small, white hand, placed over his lips, interrupted. “You are at liberty now—this minute, Uncle Em!” said Gloria.

The man at the desk shrugged his shoulders, then, helping her to a comfortable seat on the arm-chair, said:

“All right. What is it, Rosy Posie?”

“Uncle Em, am I rich?”

“Er—what's that? Oh, well,” judiciously, “you'll do.”

“Very rich? How rich, Uncle Em?”

The big swing-chair revolved with rapidity, to the peril of the young lady on its arm. The face of Walter McAndrew, Attorney-at-Law, expressed surprise.

“What's the drive?” he asked.

“That's what I want to know. How am I to drive? Uncle Em, see here. I want a runabout—wait, please wait! A nice, shiny runabout, that I can 'run' myself. I'll take you some of the time. Now, when can I have it?”

“You talk as if I had one concealed about me somewhere, and could produce it at a moment's notice.”

“All right, hand over my nice, shiny little auto!” laughed the young woman. “Honest, I'm in earnest, Uncle Em. I dreamed I had one last night, and I intended to ask you at breakfast, but I was sound asleep. Don't say anything for answer just now. Just think about it, then drop into the place where they keep 'em, on your way to supper, and order one! That's all—I'll let you off easy!”

Gloria got up and wandered about the little room. Its barrenness reminded her of Treeless Street, lined with little children, and her busy thoughts traveled back to that.

“What's a District Nurse, Uncle Em?” she asked suddenly; “with a rusty-black bag full of bottles and absorbent cotton? There's one across the street from us.”

“Bag or nurse?”

“Both. She's a dear, but what does she do?”

“Why,” explained Uncle Em, “she visits the poor and takes care of them if they are sick, you know. It's rather a new institution here in Tilford, but seems to be working finely. The city pays the nurse's salary, or else it's done by private subscriptions.”

“But I don't see how one nurse gets time to take care of a whole city—mercy!” Gloria's personal experience with nurses had been two to one girl. She remembered them now—the gentle day-nurse and the gentle night-nurse, who had moved soft-footedly about her bed, performing soothing little offices. Uncle Em smiled at her puzzled face.

“No wonder you don't 'see,'” he said, interpreting her thoughts. “But in this case the sick person gets but an hour's care, perhaps, a day. The nurse goes from house to house, doing what she can in a little time. She has to divide up her care, you see. But it is a merciful work—a merciful work.”

Gloria's face was thoughtful. Treeless Street haunted her.

“Do you know a street that hasn't a single tree on it, Uncle Em? The awfulest street! Just children and children and children and tenement houses. I suppose I've been by it hundreds of times, but I never saw it till to-day. It must have a name to it.”

“What do you want to know its name for, my dear? It isn't the kind of a street to run about on!” Uncle Em laughed. To Gloria the note of uneasiness in his voice was not noticeable.

She nodded a gay little good-by and was gone.

CHAPTER II.

After leaving her uncle's office the fancy seized Gloria to walk home instead of taking a car. She would find Treeless Street and explore it—perhaps meet the neat little figure of the District Nurse somewhere in its dismal depths. She wanted to know more of this new manner of helping people an hour a day. It was characteristic of Gloria to indulge her fancies and to find out what she wished to know. She walked slowly away, searching every cross street for the special one she wanted. They were all dismal streets for a little way, but none of them were absolutely devoid of trees. Scanty grass-spots relieved their dreariness, and the swarms of children were comfortably enough dressed. It was some little time before Gloria reached Treeless Street, but when she did, she knew it at once. Without hesitation she turned into it.

Topply tenement after tenement—was there no end to them? Was there no end to the children with little old faces? Babies trundled other babies in rickety carts; the clamor of sharp little voices filled the street. Gloria, in a new world, threaded her way among the children and thought her new thoughts. They were confused, unwelcome thoughts, but she entertained them valiantly.

“Think of coming here every day, perhaps, and living right along!”

A small boy in grotesque man-trousers, reefed and rolled, intruded himself and his baby-charge in her way. Gloria gazed down into the boy's face with a sort of fascination. He was so small, yet had such a protecting way with the baby.

“What is your name, little man?” she asked. “Dinney. What's the name o' youse?”

Gloria ignored the question.

“Is this your little brother?” gently.

“Well, I guess!” said the boy.

“Can he walk?” more gently still.

“Yep, o' course—I mean when his legs gets stronger he'll walk, won't youse, Hunkie? De doctor-woman says as wot he needs is plenty o' milk. Wid its coat on—Hunkie ain't never had none wid its coat on till de doctor-woman come.”

“Its coat on?” murmured Gloria. Then by an inspiration she knew that the boy meant cream—milk with the cream on. A sob rose unannounced in Gloria's throat as she looked again at the mite in the cart who would walk when his legs were stronger.

“Who is the doctor-woman?” she asked; but as she asked the question she knew the answer and said, “Is she the District Nurse?”

“Yes, she is. She's good to my mother, and Hunkie's the baby. Rosy does nice things, too. She showed Rosy how to be nice. Me mother's got de consumption.” The boy spoke as though discreetly proud of the fact.

“And who is Rosy?” Gloria asked.

“Sure—de girl wot lives 'cross de hall. She's got eyes like your eyes, she has.”

Across the hall on Treeless Street. A girl with eyes like hers! It was like finding herself there. Gloria shivered. She had a sudden inward vision of herself living in Treeless Street.

A little crowd of interested children had gathered. One, bolder than the rest, had drawn unpleasantly close, and was smoothing Gloria's soft white dress with timid little fingers. Gloria wondered why she did not draw away, but stood still instead.

“Are youse a doctor-woman? W'ere's yer bag? Yer ain't t'rew yer bag away?”

“Huh! She ain't no doctor-woman.” This from Dinney, who had the advantage of early acquaintance. “She's on'y a cuttin' roun' de street. Youse better not be smudgin' up her dress, Carrots—gwan off, now! All o' youse gwan an' let de lady 'lone. Me 'n' Hunkie's de on'y ones as she wants roun'.”

Dinney and Hunkie escorted Gloria to the end of the street and back. Gloria returned on the opposite side with the idea of more thoroughly exploring. But she might as well have kept to the one side; both sides were alike in tenements and children—dreariness and poverty. There was no choice. It was with a long breath of relief that Gloria emerged again upon the main street. She filled her lungs with the cleaner air, and gazed with a new admiration at the well-to-do buildings.

The grotesque little figure of Dinney tramping back into Treeless Street with his rattling cart lurching behind him, was all that remained of what seemed to Gloria now must have been a dream. She glanced up at the street's name, at its juncture with the main street, and started suddenly, in very astonishment. The name she read pointed playful, jeering letters at her. She had always known there was a street in Tilford by that name—but not this, this street! Pleasant Street! Gloria walked the rest of the way as in a dream.

* * * * *

“Uncle Em, aren't tenements unsafe to live in,” Gloria asked at supper, “when they lean every which way? Oughtn't there to be a law to tear them down?” Gloria was too intent on her own musings to intercept the swift glance her guardian gave her.

“Supposing one tumbled down, with little children in it and outside it! What did they name that awful street Pleasant Street for?”

Aunt Em's comely face wore a queer expression. She began to speak, then stopped.

“Don't you want to hear what kind of a runabout I ordered on the way home, Rosy-Posie?” What freak of fate made Uncle Em call her Rosy-Posie? Gloria winced as if with pain at thought of the girl Rosie—with eyes like hers—on Treeless Street.

“There's a girl named Rosie with eyes like mine, on Pleasant Street!” she cried. “A boy told me so. I hate that street!” She got up suddenly and went away.

The two left behind exchanged glances. Aunt Em's eyes were troubled.

“Walter, whatever started the child up to go round exploring streets?” she said.

“Goodness knows! But don't get worked up over nothing.”

“Poor child—you know I've always felt just the way she does, Walter.” Aunt Em's gentle sigh came once more.

The next morning Aunt Em appeared in Gloria's room before that leisurely young person had decided to get up. She was lying in one of the pleasant intervals between dozes, drowsily conscious that the sunshine was streaming across her feet in a warm flood, and that somewhere children were playing.

'“Lazy girl!” cried Aunt Em in the door. The lazy girl turned without surprise. She was used to early visits. “Perhaps you might like to know the time of day—”

“Oh, say it's 'most bedtime, auntie, then I won't have to get up at all!”

“Nine o'clock!”

Gloria laughed. “Call that late! Why, it might be ten, eleven, twelve! Besides, I had to make up for my nightmares—auntie, I spent nearly all night walking up Treeless Street. I couldn't get out; I thought I'd got to stay there always. The little ragamuffins wouldn't any of them tell me the way out, not even Dinney. I wouldn't have believed it of Dinney!” Aunt Em's face smiled down at the girl among the tumbled pillows. “Poor dear! You have so many troubles!” Aunt Em sympathized in gentle irony.

Gloria sat up straight. “You're making fun! Well, I don't suppose I can complain. It isn't to be wondered at that you can't believe I'd be troubled at other folks' troubles. Honest, auntie, I never was till yesterday on that street!”

“Aren't you ever going to talk about anything else, Rosy-Posie?”

“Don't say 'Rosy,' or you'll set me off again! I won't mention it again to-day if you'll promise to go down there with me some day, Aunt Em. If you won't, I shall go with the District Nurse. I'm going into one of those houses and see if it feels as bad as it looks.”

“You can't go very soon, my dear, for we are going out West with Uncle Walter to-night.”

“Auntie!—honest?” Gloria was on her feet in a sudden access of energy. Drowsiness and laziness were past things. The trips that she and Aunt Em took occasionally with her guardian were her delight; it was always an occasion of gratitude when a “case” called him away during the long summer vacation.

“We decided last night, dear. You know how Uncle Walter loves to take us along.”

“Will it be a nice long case? Say yes!”

“Yes,” smiled the elder woman, “three or four weeks, probably, and maybe longer. You never can tell how long lawyers will be, threshing out justice.”

“Where? Where? Oh, I call this fine!” Gloria was pulling out the contents of a bureau drawer. “Where are we going, auntie?”

“To Cheyenne. Gloria, what in the world are you up to?”

“Packing. Cheyenne! I'll dress in a jiffy, auntie, and when I've got my trunk packed I'll pack you.”

CHAPTER III.

Walter McAndrew, Attorney-at-Law, was in rather frequent demand in distant places, when the services of an especially acute lawyer were in demand. When these “cases,” as Gloria termed them, called him to locations worth visiting, Mr. McAndrews delighted in taking his wife and ward with him. The evening preceding the packing-scene in Gloria's bedroom, he and his good wife had come to the rapid decision that a trip to the West just now would be good for Gloria—more likely than anything else to eradicate impressions of unpleasant Pleasant Street. Gloria's impressions were apt to come and go easily, they reasoned, and it was important for this one to go.

“You were going away, anyway, and I suppose I can go too, even if it is hot,” his wife had sighed in gentle renunciation of her own comfort. As for Gloria—the child was always delighted with variety and change. No trouble about Gloria!

Ten years earlier, when, close upon the death of his beloved young wife, Gloria's father had slipped out of life, the orphan of seven years had been given into Mr. McAndrews' charge, to be loved and petted, while Mr. McAndrews was given her generous little fortune to husband and watch over. It had been a beautiful home for Gloria; unquestioningly she had accepted all its comforts and love. Yet Gloria was not selfish—only young. Gloria's father had been a keen business man, and the investments of his money as he earned it had been of the kind that fatten men's pocketbooks, however lean they may make the bodies of other men.

For the time, Treeless Street, lined with little children, vanished from Gloria's mind. The journey she began so promptly was a new one to her, and with the first appearance of daylight the first morning she was ready to enjoy it. Unlike Aunt Em, she was fresh and vigorous after the night in the sleeper; she did not even dream of her recent discoveries in streets. No old-faced little boys in reefed man-trousers appealed to her sleeping pity.

“Best thing we could have done,” whispered Uncle Em to his wife, watching the girl's animated face. “But I'm afraid it's going to be tough on you, my dear.”