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“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.”