o look grave. Instead, he burst into a shout
of laughter.

"I think I understand," he said, as soon as he could speak. "You have to
wear these clothes, because you ran away, and the blanket is to cover
them up. What made you run away?"

"Aunt Teddy."

"Who?"

"My Aunt Teddy."

"Is it--a woman?" The stranger began to wonder if it were hereditary in
Mac's family to confound the genders in such ways as this.

"Yes, she is my aunt; she's a woman, not an uncle."

"Oh. It's a curious name."

"Ve rest of her name is Farrington," Mac explained, pulling the blanket
closer about his chubby legs, as he saw some people coming up the street
toward him.

"And she made you run away?"

Mac nodded till his cheeks shook like a mould of currant jelly.

"What did she do?"

"Talk, and talk some more, all ve time. I want to talk some, and I
can't. She eats her eggs oh natural."

"What? What does that mean?"

"'Vout any salt. Vat's what she calls it, oh natural. I like salt."

"Don't you like grapes?"

"Yes."

"Let's get some."

Wrapped like an Indian brave, Mac started off down the street, his yellow
and blue toga trailing behind him and getting under his feet at every
step. His dignity, nevertheless, was perfect and able to triumph over
even such untoward circumstances as these, and he accepted the stranger's
conversational attempts with a lofty courtesy which suggested a reversal
of their relative ages. Just as the corner was reached, however, and the
fruit stand was but a biscuit-toss away, he suddenly collapsed.

"Vere vey are!" he exclaimed.

"Who?"

"My mamma, and Aunt Teddy." And, turning, he scurried away as fast as his
blanket would let him.

As he passed them, the young man gave a glance at the two women, swift,
yet long enough to take in every detail of their appearance and stamp
it upon his memory. The shorter one with the golden hair was evidently
Mac's mother, not only because she was the older, but became the child's
mischievous face was like a comic mask made in the semblance of her own
gentle features. Her companion was more striking. Taller and more richly
dressed, she carried the impression of distinctiveness, of achievement,
as if she were a person who had proved her right to exist. Gifford
Barrett's eyes lingered on her longer, at a loss to account for a
certain familiarity in her appearance. Where had he seen her before?
Both face and figure seemed known to him, other than in the relation