y as white stones of a selected size edged all the
paths at Johnnie Blake's. And each gave out a soft light. She did not
have to ask about them. She guessed promptly what they were--lights to
make plain the way for people's feet: in short, nothing more nor less
than footlights!

A few times in her life--so few that she could tell them off on her pink
fingers--she had been taken to the theater, Jane accompanying her by
right of nurse-maid, Miss Royle by her superior right as judge of all
matters that partook of entertainment; Thomas coming also, though
apparently for no reason whatever, to grace a rear seat along with the
chauffeur. Seated in a box, close to the curved edge of the stage, she
had seen the soft glow of the footlights. But for some reason which she
could not fathom, the footlights had always been carefully concealed
from everyone but the people on the stage. Trying to imagine them
without any suggestions from Miss Royle or Jane, she had patterned them
after a certain stuffed slipper-cushion that stood on Jane's
dressing-table. How different was the reality, and how much more
satisfactory!

Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights. "You're just
startin'," she repeated. "Where?"

"To find her father and mother," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces,
stoutly.

At that Jane shook her huge pompadour. "Father and mother!" she cried.
"Indeed, you won't! Not while _I'm_ a-takin' care of her." And reaching
out, caught Gwendolyn--by a slender wrist.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other. And the next moment Gwendolyn
was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss
Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and
quarreled. For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her
away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might.

"Slap her hands! Slap her hands!" he shouted excitedly. "It'll start
circulation."

Both slapped--so hard that her hands stung. And with the result he
sought. For instantly all three began going in circles, around and
around, faster and faster and faster.

It was Jane who first let go. She was puffing hard, and the perspiration
was standing out upon her forehead. "I'm going to call the Policeman,"
she threatened shrilly.

"Oh! Oh! Please don't!" Gwendolyn's cry was as shrill. "I don't want him
to get me!"

"_Call_ the Policeman then," retorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And to
Gwendolyn, soothingly, "Hush!