vertheless 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 forefinger 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