The Poor Little Rich Girl

Why had Miss Royle, sly reptile that she was, scuttled away without so much as a good-by?

"Oh, dear!" sighed Gwendolyn; "just as soon as one trouble's finished, another one starts!"

"We must get on her track!" declared the Policeman, patroling to and fro anxiously.

"And let's hurry," urged the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "It's coming night in the City. And all these lights'll be needed soon."

Very soon, indeed. For even as he spoke it happened—with a sharp click. Instantly the pink glow was blotted out. As suddenly thick blackness shut down.

Except straight ahead! There Gwendolyn made out an oblong patch of sky in which were a few dim stars.

"Never mind," went on the little old gentleman, soothingly. "Because we're close to the place where there's light all the time."

"All the time?" repeated Gwendolyn, surprised.

"It's where light grows."

"Grows?"

"Well, it's where candle-light grows."

"Candle-light!" she cried. "You mean—! Oh, it's where my fath-er comes!"

"Sometimes."

"Will he be there now?"

"Only the Bird can tell us that."

Then she understood Jane's last gasping admonition—"Get you-know-what out of the way! A certain person mustn't talk to it! If she does she'll find—"

It was the Doctor's hand that steadied her as she hurried forward in the darkness. It was a big hand, and she was able to grasp only two fingers of it. But that clinging hold made her feel that their friendship was established. She was not at all surprised at her complete change of attitude toward him. It seemed to her now as if he and she had always been on good terms.

The others were near. She could hear the tinkle-tankle of the Piper's pipes, the scuff of Puffy's paws, the labored breathing of the little old gentleman as he trudged, the heavy tramp, tramp of the Policeman. She made her bare feet travel as fast as she could, and kept her look steadily ahead on the dim stars.

And saw, moving from one to another of them, in quick darts—now up, now down—a small Something. She did not instantly guess what it was—flitting across that half-darkened sky. Until she heard the wild beating of tiny pinions!

"Why, it's a bird!" she exclaimed.

"A bird?" repeated the Policeman, all eagerness.

"Must be the Bird!" declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, triumphantly.

It was. Even in the poor light her eager eyes made out the bumps on that small feathered head. And saw that on the down-drooping tail, nicely balanced, and gleaming whitely, was a lump.

Remembering what she had heard about that bit of salt, she ran forward. At her approach, his wings half-lifted. And as she reached out to him, pointing a small finger, he sprang sidewise, alighting upon it.

"Oh, I'm glad you've come!" he panted.

He was no larger than a canary; and seemed to be brown—a sparrow-brown. Prejudiced against him she had been. He had tattled about her—worse, about her father. Yet seeing him now, so tiny and ruffled and frightened, she liked him.

She brought him to a level with her eyes. "What's the matter?" she asked soothingly.

"I'm afraid." He thrust out his head, pointing. "Look."

She looked. Ahead the tops of the grass blades were swaying this way and that in a winding path—as if from the passage of some crawling thing!

"She tried to get me out of the way!"

"Oh, tell me where is my fath-er!"

"Why, of course. They say he's—"

He did not finish; or if he did she heard no end to the sentence. Of a sudden her face had grown almost painfully hot—as a great yellow light flamed against it, a light that shimmered up dazzlingly from the surface of a broad treeless field. This field was like none that she had ever imagined. For its acres were neatly sodded with mirrors.

The little company was on the beveled edge of the field. To halt them, and conspicuously displayed, was a sign. It read—

"'Keep off the glass,'" read Gwendolyn. "And I don't wonder. 'Cause we'd crack it."

"We don't crack it, we cross it," reminded the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And stepped boldly upon the gleaming plate.

"My! My!" exclaimed the Piper. "Ain't there a fine crop this year!"

A fine crop? Gwendolyn glanced down. And saw for the first time that the mirrored acres were studded, flower-like, with countless silk-shaded candles!

What curious candles they were! They did not grow horizontally, as she had imagined they must, but upright and candle-like. Above their sticks, which were of brass, silver and decorated porcelain, was a flame, ruddy of tip, sharply pointed, but fat and yellow at the base, where the soft white wax fed the fire; at the other end of the sticks, as like the top light as if it were a perfect reflection, was a second flame. These were candles that burned at both ends.

And this was the region she had traveled so far to find! Her heart beat so wildly that it stirred the plaid of the little gingham dress.

"Say! I hear a quacking!" announced Puffy, staring up into the sky.

Gwendolyn heard it, too. It seemed to come from across the Field of Double-Ended Candles. She peered that way, to where a heavy fringe of trees walled the farther side greenily.

She saw him first!—while the others (excepting the Bird) were still staring skyward. At the start, what she discerned was only a faint outline on the tree-wall—the outline of a man, broad-shouldered, tall, but a trifle stooped. It was faint for the reason that it blended with the trees. For the man was garbed in green.

As he advanced into the field, the chorus of quacks grew louder. And presently Gwendolyn caught certain familiar expressions—"Oh, don't bozzer me!" "Sit up straight, Miss! Sit up straight!" (this a rather deep quack). "My dear child, you have no sense of time!" And, "What on earth ever put such a question into your head!" She concluded that the expressions were issuing from the large bell-shaped horn which was pointed her way over one shoulder of the man in green. The talking-machine to which the horn was attached—a handsome mahogany affair—he carried on his back. It was not unlike a hand-organ. Which made Gwendolyn wonder if he was not the Man-Who-Makes-Faces' brother.

She glanced back inquiringly at the little old gentleman. Either the stranger was a relation—and not a popular one—or else the quacking expressions annoyed. For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was scowling. And, "Cavil, criticism, correction!" he scolded, half to himself.

He in green now began to move about and gather silk-shaded candles, bending this way and that to pluck them, and paying not the slightest attention to the group of watchers in plain view. But not one of these was indifferent to his presence. And all were acting in a most incomprehensible manner. With one accord, Doctor and Piper, Bear and Policeman, Face-maker and Bird, were rubbing hard at the palm of one hand. There being no trees close by, the men used the sole of a shoe, while Puffy raked away at one paw with the claws of the others, and the Bird pecked a foot with his beak.

And yet Gwendolyn could not believe that it was really he.

The Policeman drew near. "You've heard of Hobson's choice?" he inquired in a low voice. "Perhaps this is Hobson, or Sam Hill, or Punch, or Great Scott."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces shook his head. "You don't know him," he answered, "because recently, when the bears were bothering him a lot in his Street, I made him a long face."

The man in green was pausing where the candles clustered thickest. Gwendolyn, still doubtful, went forward to greet him.

"How do you do, sir," she began, curtseying.

His face was long, as the Man-Who-Makes-Faces had pointed out—very long, and pale, and haggard. Between his sunken temples burned his dark-rimmed eyes. His nose was thin, and over it the skin was drawn so tightly that his nostrils were pinched. His lips were pressed together, driving out the blood. His cheeks were hollow, and shadowed bluely by a day-old beard. He had on a hat. Yet she was able (curiously enough!) to note that his hair was sparse over the top of his head, and streaked with gray.

Nevertheless there was no denying that she recognized him dimly.

Something knotted in her throat—at seeing weariness, anxiety, even torture, in those deep-set eyes. "I think I've met you before somewhere," she faltered. "Your—your long face—" The Bird was perched on the fore-finger of one hand. She proffered the other.

He did not even look at her. "My hands are full," he declared. And again, "My hands are full."

She glanced at them. And saw that each was indeed full—of paper money. Moreover, the green of his coat was the green of new crisp bills. While his buff-colored trousers were made of yellowish ones, carefully creased.

He was literally made of money.

Now she felt reasonably certain of his identity. Yet she determined to make even more sure. "Would you mind just turning around for a moment?" she inquired.

"But I'm busy to-day," he protested, "I can't be bothered with little girls. I'll see you when you're eight years old." Nevertheless he faced about accommodatingly.

The moment he turned his back he displayed a detail of his dress that had not been visible before. This detail, at first glance, appeared to be a smart leather piping. On second glance it seemed a sort of shawl-strap contrivance by which the talking-machine was suspended. But in the end she knew what it was—a leather harness!—an exceedingly handsome, silver-buckled, hand-sewed harness!

She went around him and raised a smiling face—caught at a hand, too; and felt her own happy tears make cool streaks down her cheeks. "I—I don't see you often," she said, "bu-but I know you just the same. You're—you're my fath-er!"

At that, he glanced down at her—stooped—picked a candle—and held it close to her face.

"Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"

"Poor little rich girl," she prompted, noting that he had left out the word.

She heard a sob!

The next moment, Rustle! Rustle! Rustle! And at her feet the gay-topped candles were bent this way and that—as Miss Royle, with an artful serpent-smile on her bandaged face, writhed her way swiftly between them!

"Dearie," she hissed, making an affectionate half-coil about Gwendolyn, "what do you think I'm going to say to you!"

Gwendolyn only shook her head.

"Guess, darling," encouraged the governess, coiling herself a little closer.

"Maybe you're going to say, 'Use your dictionary,'" ventured Gwendolyn.

"Oh, dearie!" chided Miss Royle, managing a very good blush for a snake.

But now Gwendolyn guessed the reason for the other's sudden display of affection. For that scaly head was rising out of the grass, inch by inch, and those glittering serpent eyes were fixed upon the Bird!

Unable to move, he watched her, plumage on end, round eyes fairly starting.

"Cheep! Cheep!"

At his cry of terror, the Doctor interposed. "I think we'd better take the Bird out of here," he said. "The less noise the better." And with that, he lifted the small frightened thing from Gwendolyn's finger.

Miss Royle, quite thrown off her poise, sank hissing to the ground. "My neuralgia's worse than ever this evening," she complained, affecting not to notice his interference.

"Huh!" he grunted. "Keep away from bargain counters."

The Piper came jangling up. "That snake belongs in her case," he declared, addressing the Doctor.

More than once Gwendolyn had wondered why the Piper had burdened himself—to all appearances uselessly and foolishly—with the various pieces of lead pipe. But now what wily forethought she granted him. For with a few quick flourishes of the wrench, she saw him join them, end to end, to form one length. This he threw to the ground, after which he gave a short, sharp whistle.

In answer to it, the Bird fluttered down, and entered one end of the pipe, giving, as he disappeared from sight, one faint cheep.

Miss Royle heard. Her scaly head glittered up once more. Her beady eyes shone. Her tongue darted hate. Then little by little, that long black body began to move—toward the pipe!

A moment, and she entered it; another, and the last foot of rustling serpent had disappeared. Then out of the farther end of the pipe bounced the Bird. Whereat the Piper sprang to the Bird's side, produced a nut, and screwed it on the pipe-end.

"How's that!" he cried triumphantly.

The pipe rolled partly over. A muffled voice came from it, railing at him: "Be careful what you do, young man! I saw you had that bonnet of mine!"

"Oh, can a snake crawl backwards?" demanded Gwendolyn, excitedly.

The Piper answered with a harsh laugh. And scrambling the length of the lead pipe, fell to hammering in a plug.

Miss Royle was a prisoner!

The Bird bounced very high. "That's a feather in your cap," he declared joyously, advancing to the Piper. And suiting the action to the word, pulled a tiny plume from his own wing, fluttered up, and thrust it under the band of the other's greasy head-gear.

"Think how that governess has treated me," growled Puffy. "When I was in your nursery, and was old and a little worn out, how I would've appreciated care—and repair!"

"The Employment Agency for her," said the Piper.

"I'll attend to that," added the Policeman.

Gwendolyn's father had been gathering candles, and had seemed not to see what was transpiring. Now as if he was satisfied with his load, he suddenly started away in the direction he had come. His firm stride jolted the talking-machine not a little. The quacking cries recommenced—

"Please to pay me.... Let me sell you...! Let me borrow...! Won't you hire...! Quack! Quack! Quack!"

After him hurried the others in an excited group. The Piper led it, his plumbing-tools jangling, his pig-poke a-swing. And Gwendolyn saw him grin back over a shoulder craftily—then lay hold of her father and tighten a strap.

She trudged in the rear. She had found her father—and he could see only the candles he sought, and the money in his grasp! She was out in the open with him once more, where she was free to gambol and shout—yet he was bound by his harness and heavily laden.

"I might just as well be home," she said to Puffy, disheartened.

"Wish your father'd let me sharpen his ears," whispered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. He shifted the hand-organ to the other shoulder.

The Doctor had a basket on his arm. He peered into it. "I haven't a thing about me," he declared, "but a bread-pill."

"How would a glass of soda-water do?" suggested the Policeman, in an undertone.

"Why, of course!"

It had happened before that the mere mention of a thing brought that dying swiftly. Now it happened again. For immediately Gwendolyn heard the rush and bubble and brawl of a narrow mountain-stream. Next, looking down from the summit of a gentle rise, she saw the smoky windings of the unbottled soda!

The Doctor was a man of action. Though the Policeman had made his suggestion only a second before, here was the former already leaning down to the stream; and, having dipped, was walking in the midst of the little company, glass in hand.

Gwendolyn ran forward. "Fath-er!" she called; "please have a drink!"

Her father shook his head. "I'm not thirsty," he declared, utterly ignoring the proffered glass.

"I—I was 'fraid he wouldn't," sighed Gwendolyn, head down again, and scuffing bare feet in the cool damp grass of the stream-side—yet not enjoying it! The lights had changed: The double-ended candles had disappeared. Filling the Land once more with a golden glow were countless tapers—electric, gas, and kerosene. She was back where she had started, threading the trees among which she had danced with joy.

But she was far from dancing now!

"Let's not give up hope," said a voice—the Doctor's. He was holding up the glass before his face to watch the bubbles creaming upon its surface. "There may be a sudden turn for the better."

Before she could draw another breath—here was the turn! a sharp one. And she, felt a keen wind in her eyes,—blown in gusts, as if by the wings of giant butterflies. The cloud that held the wind lay just ahead—a pinky mass that stretched from sky to earth.

The Bird turned his dark eyes upon Gwendolyn from where he sat, high and safe, on the Doctor's shoulder. "I think her little journey's almost done," he said. There was a rich canary note in his voice.

"Oo! goody!" she cried.

"You mean you have a solution?" asked the little old gentleman.

"A solution?" called back the Piper. "Well—?"

A moment's perfect stillness. Then, "It's simple," said the Bird. (Now his voice was strangely like the Doctor's.) "I suppose you might call it a salt solution."

His last three words began to run through Gwendolyn's mind—"A salt solution! A salt solution! A salt solution!"—as regularly as the pulse that throbbed in her throat.

"Yes,"—the Doctor's voice now, breathless, low, tremulous with anxiety. "If we want to save her—"

"Am I her?" interrupted Gwendolyn. (And again somebody sobbed!)

"—It must be done!"

"There isn't anything to cry about," declared Gwendolyn, stoutly. She felt hopeful, even buoyant.

It was all novel and interesting. The Doctor began by making grabs at the lump of salt on the Bird's tail. The lump loosened suddenly. He caught it between his palms, after which he began to roll it—precisely as he had rolled the dough at the Pillery. And as the salt worked into a more perfect ball, it slowly browned!

Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "My father won't know the difference," she cried.

"You get my idea exactly," answered the Bird.

The Doctor uncovered the pill-basket, selected a fine, round, toasted example of his own baking, and presented it to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces; presented a second to Gwendolyn; thence went from one to another of the little company, whereat everyone fell to eating.

At once Gwendolyn's father looked round the circle of picknickers—as if annoyed by the crunching; but when the Doctor held out the brown salt, he took it, examined it critically, turning it over and over, then lifted it—and bit.

"Pretty slim lunch this," he observed.

He ate heartily, until the last salt crumb was gone. Then, "I'm thirsty," he declared "Where's—?"

Instantly the Doctor proffered the glass. And the other drank—in one great gasping mouthful.

"Ah!" breathed Gwendolyn. And felt a grateful coolness on her lips, as if she had slaked her own thirst.

The next moment her father turned. And she saw that the change had already come. First of all, he looked down at his hands, caught sight of the crumpled bills, and attempted to stuff them hurriedly into his pocket. But his pockets were already wedged tight with silk-shaded candles. He reached round and fed the bills into the mahogany case of the talking-machine. Next, he emptied his pockets of the double-ended candles, frowned at them, and threw them to one side to wilt. Last of all, he spied a bit of leather strap, and pulled at it impatiently. Whereupon, with a clear ring of its silver mountings, his harness fell about his feet.

He smiled, and stepped out of it, as out of a cast-off garment. This quick movement shook up the talking-machine, and at once voices issued from the great horn shrilly protesting into his ear—"Quack! Quack! Kommt, Fraulein!" "Une fille stupider!" "Gid-dap!" "Honk! Honk! Honk!"—and then, rippling upward, to the accompaniment of dancing feet, a scale on a piano.

He peered into the horn. "When did I come by this?" he demanded. "Well, I shan't carry it another step!" And moving his shoulders as if they ached, let the talking-machine slip sidewise to the glass.

There was a crank attached to one side of the machine. This he grasped. And while he continued to stuff bills into the mahogany box with one hand, he turned the crank with the other. Gwendolyn had often marveled at the way bands of music, voices of men and women, chimes of clocks, and bugle-calls could come out of the self-same place. Now this was made clear to her. For as her father whirled the crank, out of the horn, in a little procession, waddled the creatures who had quacked so persistently.

There were six of them in all. One wore patent leather pumps; one had a riding-whip; the third was in motor-livery—buff and blue; another waddled with an air unmistakably French (feathers formed a boa about her neck); the next advanced firmly, a metronome swinging on a slender pince-nez chain; the last one of all carried a German dictionary.

Her father observed them gloomily. "That's the kind of ducks and drakes I've been making out of my money," he declared.

The procession quacked loudly, as if glad to get out. And waddled toward the stream.

"Why!" cried Gwendolyn; "there's Monsieur Tellegen, and my riding-master, and the chauffeur, and my French teacher, and my music-teacher, and my Ger—!"

His eyes rested upon her then. And she saw that he knew her!

"Oh, daddy!"—the tender name she loved to call him.

"Little daughter! Little daughter!"

She felt his arms about her, pressing her to him. His pale face was close. "When my precious baby is strong enough—," he began.

"I'm strong now." She gripped his fingers.

"We'll take a little jaunt together."

"We must have moth-er with us, daddy. Oh, dear daddy!"

"We'll see mother soon," he said; "—very soon."

She brushed his cheek with searching fingers. "I think we'd better start right away," she declared. "'Cause—isn't this a rain-drop on your face?"

Without another moment's delay Gwendolyn and her father set forth, traveling a road that stretched forward beside the stream of soda, winding as the stream wound, to the music of the fuming water—music with a bass of deep pool-notes.

How sweet it all was! Underfoot the dirt was cool. It yielded itself deliciously to Gwendolyn's bare tread. Overhead, shading the way, were green boughs, close-laced, but permitting glimpses of blue. Upon this arbor, bouncing along with an occasional chirp of contentment, and with the air of one who has assumed the lead, went the Bird.

Gwendolyn's father walked in silence, his look fixed far ahead. Trotting at his side, she glanced up at him now and then. She did not have to dread the coming of Jane, or Miss Royle, or Thomas. Yet she felt concern—on the score of keeping beside him; of having ready a remark, gay or entertaining, should he show signs of being bored.

No sooner did the thought occur to her than the Bird was ready with a story. He fluttered down to the road, hunted a small brush from under his left wing and scrubbed carefully at the feathers covering his crop. "Now I can make a clean breast of it," he announced.

"Oh, you're going to tell us how you got the lump?" asked Gwendolyn, eagerly.

The feathers over his crop were spotless. He nodded—and tucked away the scrubbing brush. "Once upon a time," he began—

She dimpled with pleasure. "I like stories that start that way!" she interrupted.

"Once upon a time," he repeated, "I was just an ordinary sparrow, hopping about under the kitchen-window of a residence, busily picking up crumbs. While I was thus employed, the cook in the kitchen happened to spill some salt on the floor. Being a superstitious creature she promptly threw a lump of it over her shoulder. Well, the kitchen window was open, and the salt went through it and lit on my tail," (Here he pointed his beak to where the crystal had been). "And no sooner did it get firmly settled on my feathers—"

"The first person that came along could catch you!" cried Gwendolyn, "Jane told me that."

"Jane?" said the Bird.

"The fat two-faced woman that was my nurse."

The Bird ruffled his plumage. "Well, of course she knew the facts," he admitted "You see, she was the cook."

"Oh!"

"As long as that lump was on my tail," resumed the Bird, "anybody could catch me, and send me anywhere. And nobody ever seemed to want to take the horrid load off—with salt so cheap."

"Did you do errands for my fath-er?"

Her father answered. "Messages and messages and messages," he murmured wearily. (There was a rustle, as of paper.) "Mostly financial," He sighed.

"Sometimes my work has eased up a trifle," went on the Bird, more cheerily; "that's when They hired Jack Robinson, because he's so quick."

"Oh, yes, you worked for They," said Gwendolyn. "Please, who are They? And what do They look like? And how many are there of 'em?"

Ahead was a bend in the road. He pointed it out with his bill. "You know," said he, "it's just as good to turn a corner as a stone. For there They are now!" He gave an important bounce.

She rounded the bend on tiptoe. But when she caught sight of They, it seemed as if she had seen them many times before. They were two in number, and wore top hats, and plum-covered coats with black piping. They were standing in the middle of the road, facing each other. About their feet fluttered dingy feathers. And between them was a half-plucked crow, which They were picking.

Once she had wanted to thank They for the pocket in the new dress. Now she felt as if it would be ridiculous to mention patch-pockets to such stately personages. So, leaving her father, she advanced modestly and curtsied.

"How do you do, They," she began. "I'm glad to meet you."

They stared at her without replying. They were alike in face as well as in dress; even in their haughty expression of countenance.

"I've heard about you so often," went on Gwendolyn. "I feel I almost know you. And I've heard lots of things that you've said. Aren't you always saying things?"

"Saying things," They repeated. (She was astonished to find that They spoke in chorus!) "Well, it's often So-and-So that does the talking, but we get the blame." Now They glared.

Gwendolyn, realizing that she had been unfortunate in the choice of a subject, hastened to reassure them. "Oh, I don't want to blame you," she protested, "for things you don't do."

At that They smiled. "I blame him, and he blames me," They answered. "In that way we shift the responsibility." (At which Gwendolyn nodded understandingly.) "And since we always hunt as a couple" (here They pulled fiercely at the feathers of the captured bird between them) "nobody ever knows who really is to blame."

They cast aside the crow, then, and led the way along the road, walking briskly. Behind them walked the Policeman, one hand to his cap.

"Say, please don't put me off the Force," he begged.

Grass and flowers grew along the center of the road. No sooner did the Policeman make his request than They moved across this tiny hedge and traveled one side of the road, giving the other side over to the Officer. Whereupon he strode abreast of They, swinging his night-stick thoughtfully.

The walking was pleasant there by the stream-side. The fresh breeze caressed Gwendolyn's cheeks, and swirled her yellow hair about her shoulders. She took deep breaths, through nostrils swelled to their widest.

"Oh, I like this place best in the whole, whole world!" she said earnestly.

The next moment she knew why! For rounding another bend, she caught sight of a small boyish figure in a plaid gingham waist and jeans overalls. His tousled head was raised eagerly. His blue eyes shone.

"Hoo-hoo-oo-oo!" he called.

She gave a leap forward. "Why, it's Johnnie Blake!" she cried. "Johnnie! Oh, Johnnie!"

It was Johnnie. There was no mistaking that small freckled nose. "Say! Don't you want to help dig worms?" he invited. And proffered his drinking-cup.

She needed no urging, but began to dig at once; and found bait in abundance, so that the cup was quickly filled, and she was compelled to use his ragged straw hat. "Oh, isn't this nice!" she exclaimed. "And after we fish let's hunt a frog!"

"I know where there's tadpoles," boasted he. "And long-legged bugs that can walk on the water, and—"

"Oh, I want to stay here always!"

She had forgotten that there were others about. But now a voice—her father's— broke in upon her happy chatter:

"Without your mother?"

She had been sitting down. She rose, and brushed her hands on the skirt of her dress. "I'll find my moth-er," she said.

The little old gentleman was beside Johnnie, patting his shoulder and thrusting something into a riveted pocket. "There!" he half-whispered. "And tell your father to be sure to keep this nose away from the grindstone."

Gwendolyn wrinkled her brows. "But—but isn't Johnnie coming with me?" she asked.

At that Johnnie shook his head vigorously. "Not away from here," he declared. "No!"

"No," repeated Puffy. "Not away from the woods and the stream and fishing, and hunting frogs and tadpoles and water-bugs. Why, he's the Rich Little Poor Boy!"

"Oh!—Well, then I'll come back!" She moved away slowly, looking over a shoulder at him as she went. "Don't forget! I'll come back!"

"I'll be here," he answered. "And I'll let you use my willow fish-pole." He waved a hand.

There were carriage-lamps along the stream now. Alternating with these were automobile lights—brass side-lights, and larger brass search-lights, all like great glowing eyes.

Again They were in advance. "We can't be very far from the Barn," They announced. And each waved his right arm in a half-circle.

"Robin Hood's Barn?" whispered Gwendolyn.

The Policeman nodded. "The first people to go around it," said he, "were ladies who used feather-dusters on the parlor furniture."

"I s'pose it's been built a long time," said Gwendolyn.

"Ah, a long time!" Her father was speaking. Now he halted and pointed down—to a wide road that crossed the one she was traveling. "Just notice how that's been worn."

The wide road had deep ruts. Also, here and there upon it were great, bowl-like holes. But a level strip between the ruts and the holes shone as if it had been tramped down by countless feet.

"Around Robin Hood's Barn!" went on her father sadly. "How many have helped to wear that road! Not only her mother, but her mother before her, and then back and back as far as you can count."

"I can't count back very far," said Gwendolyn, "'cause I never have any time for 'rithmatic. I have to study my French, and my German, and my music, and my—"

Her father groaned. "I've traveled it, too," he admitted.

She lifted her eyes then. And there, just across that wide road, was the Barn!—looming up darkly, a great framework of steel girders, all bolted together, and rusted in patches and streaks. Through these girders could be seen small regular spots of light.

"Nobody has to go round the Barn," she protested. "Anybody could just go right in at one side and right out at the other."

"But the road!" said her father meaningly. "If ever one's feet touch it—!"

She thought the road wonderful. It was river-wide, and full of gentle undulations. Where it was smoothest, it reflected the Barn and all the surrounding lights. Yet now (like the shining tin of a roof-top) it resounded—to a foot-fall!

"Some one's coming!" announced the Piper.

Buzz-z-z-z!

It was a low, angry droning.

The next moment a figure came into sight at a corner of the Barn. It was a slender, girlish figure, and it came hurrying forward along the circular way with never a glance to right or left. Gwendolyn could see that whoever the traveler was, her dress was plain and scant. Nor were there ornaments shining in her pretty hair, which was unbound. She was shod in dainty, high-heeled slippers. And now she walked as fast as she could; again she broke into a run; but taking no note of the ruts and rough places, continually stumbled.

"She's watching what's in her hand," said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Contemplation, speculation, perlustration." And he sighed.

"She'll have a fine account to settle with me,"—this the Piper again. He whipped out his note-book. "That's what I call a merry dance."

"See what she's carrying," advised the Bird. In one hand the figure held a small dark something.

Gwendolyn looked. "Why,—why," she began hesitatingly, "isn't it a bonnet?"

A bonnet it was—a plain, cheap-looking piece of millinery.

BUZZ-Z-Z-Z-Z!

The drone grew loud. The figure caught the bonnet close to her face and held it there, turning it about anxiously. Her eyes were eager. Her lips wore a proud smile.

It was then that Gwendolyn recognized her. And leaned forward, holding out her arms. "Moth-er!" she plead. "Mother!"

Her mother did not hear. Or, if she heard, did not so much as lift her eyes from the bonnet. She tripped, regained her balance, and rushed past, hair wind-tossed, dress fluttering. At either side of her, smoke curled away like silk veiling blown out by the swift pace.

"Oh, she's burning!" cried Gwendolyn, in a panic of sudden distress.

The Doctor bent down. "That's money," he explained; "—burning her pockets."

"She can't see anything but the bee. She can't hear anything but the bee." It was Gwendolyn's father, murmuring to himself.

"The bee!"

Now the Bird came bouncing to Gwendolyn's side. "You've read that bees are busy little things, haven't you?" he asked. "Well, this particular so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect—"

"That's the very one!" she declared excitedly.

"—Is no exception."

"We must get it away from her," declared Gwendolyn. "Oh, how tired her poor feet must be!" (As she said it, she was conscious of the burning ache of her own feet; and yet the tears that swam in her eyes were tears of sympathy, not of pain.) "Puffy! Won't you eat it?"

Puffy blinked as if embarrassed. "Well, you see, a bee—er—makes honey," he began lamely.

The figure had turned a corner of the Barn. Now, on the farther side of the great structure, it was flitting past the openings.

Gwendolyn rested a hand on the wing of the Bird. "Won't you eat it?" she questioned.

The Bird wagged his bumpy head. "It's against all the laws of this Land," he declared.

"But this is a society bee."

"A bird isn't even allowed to eat a bad bee. But"—chirping low—"I'll tell you what can be tried."

"Yes?"

"Ask your mother to trade her bonnet for the Piper's poke."

Gwendolyn stared at him for a moment. Then she understood. "The poke's prettier," she declared. "Oh, if she only would! Piper!"

The Piper swaggered up. "Some collecting on hand?" he asked. Swinging as usual from a shoulder was the poke.

Gwendolyn thought she had never seen a prettier one. Its ribbon bows were fresh and smart; its lace was snow-white and neatly frilled.

"Oh, I know she'll make the trade!" she exclaimed happily.

The Piper considered the matter, pursing his lips around the pipe-stem in his mouth; standing on one foot.

Gwendolyn appealed to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Maybe moth-er'll have to have her ears sharpened," she suggested.

The little old gentleman shook his shaggy head. "Don't let her hear that pig!" he warned darkly.

"She'll come round in another moment!" It was the Doctor, voice very cheery.

At that, the Piper unslung the poke and advanced to the edge of the road. "I've never wanted this crazy poke," he asserted over a shoulder to Gwendolyn. "Now, I'll just get rid of it. And I'll present that bonnet with the bee" (here he laughed harshly) "to a woman that hasn't footed a single one of my bills. Ha! ha!"

Buzz-z-z-z!

Again that high, strident note. Gwendolyn's mother was circling into sight once more. Fortunately, she was keeping close to the outer edge of the road. The Piper faced in the direction she was speeding, and prepared to race beside her.

BUZZ-Z-Z-Z!

It was an exciting moment! She was holding out the bonnet as before. He thrust the poke between her face and it, carefully keeping the lace and the bows in front of her very eyes.

"Madam!" he shouted. "Trade!"

"Moth-er!"

Her mother heard. Her look fell upon the poke. She slowed to a walk.

"Trade!" shouted the Piper again, dangling the poke temptingly.

She stopped short, gazing hard at the poke. "Trade?" she repeated coldly. (Her voice sounded as if from a great distance.) "Trade? Well, that depends upon what They say."

Then she circled on—at such a terrible rate that the Piper could not keep pace. He ceased running and fell behind, breathing hard and complaining ill-temperedly.

"Oh! Oh!" mourned Gwendolyn. The smoke blown back from that fleeing figure smarted her throat and eyes. She raised an arm to shield her face. Disappointed, and feeling a first touch of weariness, she could not choke back a great sob that shook her convulsively.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, whiskers buried in his ragged collar, was nodding thoughtfully "By and by," he murmured; "—by and by, presently, later on."

The Doctor was even more comforting. "There! There!" he said. "Don't cry."

"But, oh," breathed Gwendolyn, her bosom heaving, "why don't you feel her pulse?"

"It's—it's terrible," faltered Gwendolyn's father. His agonized look was fixed upon the road.

Now the road was indeed terrible. For there were great chasms in it—chasms that yawned darkly; that opened and closed as if by the rush and receding of water. Gwendolyn's mother crossed them in flitting leaps, as from one roof-top to another. Her daintily shod feet scarcely touched the road, so swift was her going. A second, and she was whipped from sight at the Barn's corner. About her slender figure, as it disappeared, dust mingled with the smoke—mingled and swirled, funnel-like in shape, with a wide base and a narrow top, like the picture of a water-spout in the back of Gwendolyn's geography.

The Piper came back, wiping his forehead. "What does she care about a poke!" he scolded, flinging himself down irritably. "Huh! All she thinks about is what They say!"

At that Gwendolyn's spirits revived. Somehow, instantly and clearly, she knew what should be done!

But when she opened her mouth, she found that she could not speak. Her lips were dry. Her tongue would not move. She could only swallow.

Then, just as she was on the point of throwing herself down and giving way utterly to tears, she felt a touch on her hand—a furry touch. Next, something was slipped into her grasp. It was the lip-case!

"Well, Mr. Piper," she cried out, "what do They say?"

They were close by, standing side by side, gazing at nothing. For their eyes were wide open, their faces expression-less.

Gwendolyn's father addressed them. "I never asked my wife to drop that sort of thing," he said gravely, "—for Gwendolyn's sake. You might, I suppose." One hand was in his pocket.

The two pairs of wide-open eyes blinked once. The two mouths spoke in unison: "Money talks."

Gwendolyn's father drew his hand from his pocket. It was filled with bills. "Will these—?" he began.

It was the Piper who snatched the money out of his hand and handed it to They. And thinking it over afterward, Gwendolyn felt deep gratitude for the promptness with which They acted. For having received the money, They advanced into that terrible road, faced half-about, and halted.

The angry song of the bee was faint then. For the slender figure was speeding past those patches of light that could be seen through the girders of the Barn. But soon the buzzing grew louder—as Gwendolyn's mother came into sight, shrouded, and scarcely discernible.

They met her as she came on, blocking her way. And, "Madam!" They shouted. "Trade your bonnet for the Piper's poke!"

Gwendolyn held her breath.

Her mother halted. Now for the first time she lifted her eyes and looked about—as if dazed and miserable. There was a flush on each smooth cheek. She was panting so that her lips quivered.

The Piper rose and hurried forward. And seeing him, half-timidly she reached out a hand—a slender, white hand. Quickly he relinquished the poke, but when she took it, made a cup of his two hands under it, as if he feared she might let it fall. The poke was heavier than the bonnet. She held it low, but looked at it intently, smiling a little.

Presently, without even a parting glance, she held the bonnet out to him. "Take it away," she commanded. "It isn't becoming."

He received it; and promptly made off along the road, the bonnet held up before his face. "When it comes to chargin'," he called back, with an independent jerk of the head, "I'm the only chap that can keep ahead of a chauffeur." And he laughed uproariously.

Gwendolyn's mother now began to admire the poke, turning it around, at the same time tilting her head to one side,—this very like the Bird! She fingered the lace, and picked at the ribbon. Then, having viewed it from every angle, she opened it—as if to put it on.

There was a bounce and a piercing squeal. Then over the rim of the poke, with a thump as it hit the roadway, shot a small black-and-white pig.

She dropped the poke and sprang back, frightened. And as the porker cut away among the trees, she wheeled, caught sight of Gwendolyn, and suddenly opened her arms.

With a cry, Gwendolyn flung herself forward. No need now to fear harming an elegant dress, or roughing carefully arranged hair. "Moth-er!" She clasped her mother's neck, pressing a wet cheek against a cheek of satin.

"Oh, my baby! My baby!—Look at mother!"

"I am looking at you," answered Gwendolyn, half sobbing and half laughing. "I've looked at you for a long time. 'Cause I love you so I love you!"

The next moment the Man-Who-Makes-Faces dashed suddenly aside—to a nearby flower-bordered square of packed ground over which, blazing with lights, hung one huge tree. Under the tree was a high, broad bill-board, a squat stool, and two short-legged tables. The little old gentleman began to bang his furniture about excitedly.

"The tables are turned!" he shouted. "The tables are turned!"

"Of course the tables are turned," said Gwendolyn; "but what diff'rence'll that make?"

"Difference?" he repeated, tearing back; "it means that from now on everything's going to be exactly opposite to what it has been."

"Oo! Goody!" Then lifting a puzzled face. "But why didn't you turn the tables at first? And why didn't we stay here? My moth-er was here all the time. And—"

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces regarded her solemnly. "Suppose we hadn't gone around," he said. "Just suppose." Before her, in a line, were They, the Doctor, the Policeman, Puffy and the Bird. He indicated them by a nod.

She nodded too, comprehending.

"But now," went on the little old gentleman, "we must all absquatulate." He took her hand.

"Oh, must you?" she asked regretfully. Absquatulate was a big word, but she understood it, having come across it one day in the Dictionary.

"Good-by." He leaned down. And she saw that his round black eyes were clouded, while his square brush-like brows were working with the effort of keeping back his tears. "Good-by!" He stepped back out of the waiting line, turned, and made off slowly, turning the crank of the hand-organ as he went.

Now the voices of They spoke up. "We also bid you good-night," They said politely. "We shall have to go. People must hear about this." And shoulder to shoulder They wheeled and followed the little old gentleman.

"But my Puffy!" said Gwendolyn. "I'd like to keep him. I don't care if he is shabby."

For answer there was a crackling and crashing in the underbrush, as if some heavy-footed animal were lumbering away.

"I think," explained her father, "that he's gone to make some poor little boy very happy."

"Oh, the Rich Little Poor Boy, I guess," said Gwendolyn, contented.

The Bird was just in front of her. He looked very handsome and bright as he flirted his rudder saucily, and darted, now up, now down. Presently, he began to sing—a glad, clear song. And singing, rose into the air.

"Oh!" she breathed. "He's happy 'cause he got that salt off his tail." When she looked again at the line, the Policeman was nowhere to be seen. "Doctor!"

"Yes."

"Don't you go."

"The Doctor is right here," said her mother, soothingly.

Gwendolyn smiled. And put one hand in the clasp of her mother's, the other in a bigger grasp.

"Tired out—all tired out," murmured her father.

She was sleepy, too—almost past the keeping open of her gray eyes. "Long as you both are with me," she whispered, "I wouldn't mind if I was back in the nursery."

The glow that filled the Land now seemed suddenly to soften. The clustered tapers had lessened—to a single chandelier of four globes. Next, the forest trees began to flatten, and take on the appearance of a conventional pattern. The grass became rug-like in smoothness. The sky squared itself to the proportions of a ceiling.

There was no mistaking the change at hand!

"We're getting close!" she announced happily.

The rose-colored light was dim, peaceful. Here and there through it she caught glints of white and gold. Then familiar objects took shape. She made out the pier-glass; flanking it, her writing-desk, upon which were the two silver-framed portraits. And there—between the portraits—was the flower-embossed calendar, with pencil-marks checking off each figure in the lines that led up to her birthday.

She sighed—a deep, tremulous sigh of content.

She moved her head from side to side slowly. And felt the cool touch of the pillow against either cheek. Then she tried to lift her arms; but found that one hand was still in a big grasp, the other in a clasp that was softer.

Little by little, and with effort, she opened her gray eyes. In the dimness she could see, to her left, scarcely more than an outline of a dark-clad figure, stooped and watchful; of that other slender figure opposite. After all the fatigue and worry of the night, her father and mother were with her yet! And someone was standing at the foot of her bed, leaning and looking down at her. That was the Doctor.

She lay very still. This was a novel experience, this having both father and mother in the nursery at the same time—and plainly in no haste to depart! The heaviness of deep sleep was gradually leaving her. Yet she forbore to speak; and as each moment went she dreaded the passing of it, lest her wonderful new happiness come to an end.