ave been easier. I think I would never have ventured after all, I
would have stayed a Mushroom always, and let the Boy be buried and
forgotten; but Molly wouldn't let me."

"God bless Molly."

I suppose I must have led her to my table, for at this juncture we
found ourselves there.

"Will Monsieur have dinner served?" breathed a voice out of the hazy
unrealities that shut us two in alone together.

"Dinner by-and-bye," I heard myself murmuring, as one brushes away a
buzzing insect. "Yes,--dinner by-and-bye--for four."

"Man," the Girl began; and then was silent.

"Little Pal," I answered, and she visibly gathered courage.

"You know what a great blow I had, and how it made me very ill," she
went on. "It was Molly Randolph who persuaded me that a complete
change, and living in the open air--the open air of other countries
where no one knew me or my troubles--would cure my heart, and mind,
too."

(Oh, what a Molly! What might she not do for this sad, bad, mad old
world, if she would but set up for a specialist in the mind and heart
line!)

"She didn't help me make the plan that--I finally carried out. You
see, she had to be married, and whisked off to England, when she had
half finished my cure. One night when I was lying awake, the thought
came to me--of a thing I might do. It fascinated me. It wouldn't let
me get away from it. At first, it was only a fantastic dream; but it
took shape, and reality, till it was able to plead its own cause and
argue its own advantages. A girl is handicapped. She can't have
adventures; she must have a chaperon. A boy is free. Besides--I wanted
to get away from men. As a boy, I could take Molly's advice, and
travel, and be a regular gipsy if I liked.

"My hair had been cut short when I was ill. That made me feel as if
the thing really was to be. One day I sent out and bought some--some
clothes, ready made, and put them on. That settled it, for I was sure
no one would ever know me, or the truth. One thing suggested another.
I thought of travelling with a caravan--then I changed my mind to
donkeys, and that led to Innocentina. I'd gone out with her up into
the mountains, donkey-back, every day from Mentone two years ago. She
had talked to me about Aosta. Her mother's people came from there.
Always since, I had wanted to go. I wrote her. I began to make
preparations for a long journey."

"You got the bag!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, that bag! I should have _died_ if any English-speakin