ts at
all; ice-cream birds in nests of spun sugar; "kisses" that snapped into
hats and wreaths and caps. And all the while the band played, and the
jewelled lights twinkled, and the stars shone far away above the arching
trees. And Dan, with his watch around his neck, held his place as the
winner of the prize at Miss Polly's side, feeling as if he were in some
dizzy dream. Then there were more games, and a grand hide-and-seek, in
which dad and some of the grown-ups joined.

Dan had found an especially fine place under the gnarled boughs of an old
cedar tree, that would have held its head high in the starlight if some of
dad's gardeners had not twisted it out of growth and shape. Hiding under
the crooked shadows, Dan was listening to the merry shouts through maze
and garden, when he became suddenly conscious of a change in their tone.
The voices grew sharp, shrill, excited, and then little Polly burst
impetuously into his hiding place,--a sobbing, trembling, indignant little
Polly, followed by a score of breathless young guests.

"I don't believe it!" she was crying tempestuously. "I _won't_ believe it!
You're just telling horrid stories on Dan, because I like him and he got
the prize."

"O Pollykins! Pollykins!" came Miss Stella's low, chiding voice.

"Halloo! halloo! What's the trouble?" rose dad's deep tones above the
clamor. "My little girl crying,--crying?"

"Yes, I am!" was the sobbing answer. "I can't help it, dad. The girls are
all whispering mean, horrid stories about Dan, and I made them tell me all
they said they had heard. I don't believe them, and I _won't_ believe
them! I told them I wouldn't believe them,--that I would come right to Dan
and let him speak for himself.--Were you ever a newsboy and a beggar boy,
Dan? Did--did you ever black boots? Have you an aunt in the poorhouse, as
Minna Foster says?"

XVIII.--BACK INTO LINE.

There was a moment's pause. Dan was really too bewildered to speak. He
felt he was reeling down from the rainbow heights to which Miss Polly had
led him, and the shock took away his breath.

"It's all--all a horrid story; I'm sure it is,--isn't it, Dan?" pleaded
his little friend, tremulously.

"Why, no!" said Dan, rallying to his simple, honest self again. "It isn't
a story at all. I _was_ a newsboy, I _did_ shine boots at the street
corner, and Aunt Winnie _is_ with the Little Sisters of the Poor now."

"Bravo!--bravo!" came a low silvery voice from the shadows,