r own
father's, and, looking up into his face, said, enthusiastically, "Oh,
isn't she lovely?"

Pirlaps seemed very much pleased, and looked down upon her more kindly
than ever. "You like Avrillia?" he said. "That's good. It isn't
everybody that appreciates Avrillia."

He stopped before a lilac-colored fog-bush and put his step down
before his easel. Sara did not dare remonstrate, but she cast an
agonized look first at the step and then at his lovely white trousers.

"Is--is that what is meant by step-relations?" was all she could say.

"Why, yes," said Pirlaps, sitting firmly down on the chocolate. "Are
you interested in relations?" he asked eagerly, after he had adjusted
his easel. "Because, if you are, we'll go to see mine, some day. I
have a lot."

Chapter III
Relations

Sara was determined, when she shut the ivory doors behind her the next
morning, to do two things, no matter what happened; first, she would
put her dimples in the dimple-holder immediately; and, second, she
would go right on to find Pirlaps, and not be beguiled into lingering
around the pool by the fascinating talk of the Plynck and her Echo.
For, ever since she left him, she had been thinking of the offer
Pirlaps had made to take her to see his relations; and she had been
growing more and more curious and interested.

And this time she did remember her dimples; she saw them sparkling on
the whipped cream cushion, all safe and contented, before she so much
as lifted her eyes from the blue plush grass. But alas, for her
resolution not to loiter! For although, on the other days, there had
been such a variegated murmur of delighted sound--the Echo of the
Plynck in the pool, and the lovely crackling of breaking rules, and
the deep-blue singing of the Zizzes' wings, and the melodious snoring
of the Snoodle (like that of a tuning-fork when it sleeps on its side)
--yet everything had been as still and motionless to the eye as an
April daydream. But this morning it was the other way around. Not a
sound was to be heard; but what a scene! You see, for the first time,
the Snoodle was awake, frisking soundlessly around the fountain; and
the Plynck--the Plynck was flying!

Now, it is true that a Plynck at rest is a beautiful sight; but it is
nothing to the charm and wonder of a Plynck in motion. (The same, as
we shall see in a moment, is true in a lesser degree of a Snoodle.)
I