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She rose. There was wonder in the gray eyes. “Are these Christmas trees?” she said. “Where am I?”

“You’ve had your soda-water,” he answered shortly. “You ought to know.”

“Yes, I—I ought to know. But—I don’t.”

He grunted.

“I s’pose,” she ventured timidly, “that nobody ever answers questions here, either.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Yes,” he retorted, “everybody does.”

“Then,”—advancing an eager step—”why don’t you?“

He mopped his forehead. “Well—well—if I must, I must: This is where all the lights go when they’re put out at night.”

“Oh!” And now as she glanced from tree to tree she saw that what he had said was true. For the greater part of the lights were electric bulbs; while many were gas-jets, and a few kerosene-flames.

Still marveling, her look chanced to fall upon herself. And she found that she was not wearing a despised muslin frock! Her dress was gingham!—an adorable plaid with long sleeves, and a patch-pocket low down on the right side!

“You darling!” she exclaimed happily, and thrust a hand into the pocket. “I guess They made it!”

Next she looked down at her feet—and could scarcely believe! She had on no stockings! She did not even have on slippers. She was barefoot!

Then, still fearful that there was some mistake about it all, she put a hand to her head; and found her hair-bow gone! In its place, making a small floppy double knot, was a length of black shoe-string!

“Oh, goody!” she cried.

“Um!” grunted the little old gentleman. “And you can play in the water if you’d like to.”

That needed no urging! She was face about on the instant.

From the standpoint of messing the soda-stream was ideal. It brawled around flat rocks, set at convenient jumping-distances from one another. (She leaped promptly to one of these and sopped her handkerchief.) It circled into sand-bottomed pools just shallow enough for wading; and from the pools, it spread out thinly to thread the grass, thus giving her an opportunity for squashing—a diverting pastime consisting in squirting equal parts of water and soil ticklishly through the toes. She hopped from rock to pool; she splashed from pool to long, wet, muddy grass.

It was the water-play that brought the realization of all her new good-fortune—the being out of doors and plainly clad; free from the espionage of a governess; away from the tyranny of a motor-car; barefoot; and—chief blessing of all!—nurseless.

Forgetting the little old gentleman, in a sudden excess of glee she seized a stick and bestrode it; seized another and belabored the quarters of a stout dappled pony; pranced, reared, kicked up her wet feet, shied wildly—

Then, both sticks cast aside, she began to dance; at first with deliberation, holding out the gingham dress at either side, and mincing through the steps taught by Monsieur Tellegen. But gradually she forsook rhythm and measure; capering ceased; the dance became fast and furious. Hallooing, she raced hither and thither among the trees, tossing her arms, darting down at the flowers and flinging them high, swishing her yellow hair from side to side, leaping exultantly toward the lights, pivoting—

Suddenly she found that she was dancing to music!—not the laboriously strummed notes of a piano, such as were beaten out by the firm-striding Miss Brown; not the clamorous, deafening, tuneless efforts of an orchestra. This was real music—inviting, inspiring, heavenly!

It was a hand-organ!

She halted, spell-bound. He was playing, turning the crank with a swift, steady motion, his ragged hat tipped to one side.

Now she understood the box hanging from its strap. She danced up to him, and held out a hand. “Why, you’re the hand-organ man!” she panted breathlessly. “And you got here as quick as I did!”

He stopped playing, “I’m the hand-organ man when I’m in town,” he corrected. “Here, in the Land of the Lights, I’m the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.”

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces! She looked at him with new interest. “Why, of course you are,” she acknowledged. “Sometimes you make ’em in town.”

“Sometimes in town I make an ugly one,” he retorted. Whereupon he shouldered the hand-organ, grasped the curved knife, and started away. As he walked, he called aloud to every side, like a huckster.

“Here’s where you get your ears sharpened!” he sang. “Ears sharpened! Eyes sharpened! Edges taken off of tongues!”

She trotted beside him, head up, gray eyes wide, lips parted. He was ascending a gentle rise toward a low hill not far distant. As she drew away from the stream and the glade, she heard, from somewhere far behind, a shrill voice. It called a name—a name strangely familiar. She paid no heed.