where they belonged. Then,
drawing a deep breath, he rubbed his hands and smiled at her, saying,
"What's the next thing you'd like to do?"

Sara saw that, though he was still rather bashful, Schlorge had taken
a great fancy to her. It pleased her very much; he was such a useful
and accommodating person. While she was trying to decide which one of
several places she would ask him to show to her, the Plynck remarked,
gently,

"Avrillia's at home."

Avrillia--that was it! Sara clapped her hands again, and this time no
harm was done; for her cheek-dimples were safe in the dimple-holder,
and her hand-dimples were on the outside, so that the clapping only
jarred them a little. It was funny, she thought, that Schlorge scorned
to work on hand-dimples, and even the Snimmy scarcely noticed them.
But it didn't worry her. Avrillia--that was it. She had come this time
especially to see Avrillia.

"Do you know where she lives?" she asked Schlorge.

"Avrillia? I should say so. Everybody knows Avrillia. At least I
know her to speak to. As to what goes on inside of her, I can't say.
She's queer. She writes poetry, you know."

"But she's nice?" asked Sara anxiously.

"Oh, she's pleasant-spoken," said Schlorge, "and pretty. Some like her,
and some don't. The Plynck, here," he spoke respectfully, though
dissentingly, "thinks the sun rises and sets in her. For myself, I
like folks of a more sensible turn."

"Even fairies?" asked Sara, half inclined to protest.

For the first time Schlorge was almost rude to her. "Well, do you take
me for a human? And I can do something besides write poetry on
rose-leaves." He replaced the forceps in his hair with obvious
professional pride--and, of course, when he put them in in that way,
they stayed.

But Sara echoed delightedly, "On rose-leaves?"

"Well, go and see her, then," said Schlorge, ungraciously. Then,
relenting a little, "Come on, I'll take you--if you're stuck on
verse-writing females."

He took Sara by the hand, and of course his hand was kinder than his
voice. To Sara's joy they struck into the curliest of the little paths,
which slipped suddenly through a half-hidden arch in the hawthorn
hedge, and then skipped confidingly right up to Avrillia's door.
Avrillia's house was right on the Verge, but the Verge was quite wide
at this point, and very lovely. It was more like a beach than anything
else; and the sands, of course, like those of most beaches, were of
gold; but inste