I think of all her audience perhaps the Portia Person was the happiest and the proudest. She took him absolutely by surprise. He hadn't remotely connected the Mademoiselle Folly of the program with his shabby client, but it was he who took her back in triumph to her "children" and let them understand something about what had happened and it was he who protected her interests during the excitable days that followed. It took more tact to manage this new Mademoiselle Folly than to arrange matters with the strange persons who sought her out.

Mademoiselle Folly still measured the value of her services by the same standards that had governed Little Miss By-the-Day's. She couldn't understand at all why one should be paid what seemed to be fabulous sums for a brief half hour of "pretending" that one loved, when a whole day's work that one hated meant only two dollars. I think if it hadn't been for the dire necessity of those last days before the impending auction they could never have made her consent to do it for money. Impossible mathematician that she was, she could see the multiple of even the lowest salary that vaudeville managers offered, meant hope that she could sometime pay the appalling sum total of the debts on the house in Montrose Place; that is, if, as the young lawyer pointed out, she could "keep things coming her way." Surely it seemed during those first delightful weeks of her amazing vogue that she could "keep them coming" forever!

She was so flushed with enthusiasm, so joyous over these unexpected opportunities! She was so earnest in her desire to give "for value received"!

Never for a moment did she rest on her laurels. In spite of vast h.o.a.rds of songs in her amazing memory she set herself very humbly to finding more.--The Wheezy's friends helped her so joyously! Her audiences helped her so artlessly! And the Poetry Girl fairly lived in the library unearthing treasures for her! It was a wonderful, wonderful month, that month of May! She whistled and sang and talked and gestured her way into thousands of hearts, she smiled naively at her audiences' delight in her. She constantly varied her methods. Some of her happiest results were merely lucky accidents--as on the day when Babiche followed her out on the stage and sat at attention like a trick dog. After that Babiche appeared at all the children's matinees and oh, what a delicious lot of animal and children songs the Poetry Girl discovered! And did you ever see her do "Battledore and Shuttlec.o.c.k" to minuet time?

But it was Uncle Peter, with whom she still played chess whenever she could steal the time, who found out in some mysterious way about the house and its difficulties and it was Uncle Peter, (who wasn't half dead, not by a long shot) who sat up and forgot his ailments and held long conferences with the young lawyer and the Portia Person. And it was Uncle Peter whose own generous gift, coupled with what he coerced from his friends, who made it possible for the burden of taxes and interests on that great house to be lifted. It was "vairee businesslike," the same sort of "businesslike" that Felice herself had been when she made the bargain with the Poetry Girl to pay double rent if she should ever be earning anything. The stockholders in the new corporation that took over the house were to sell their stock back at par whenever the house should be put on a paying basis, or whenever Miss Day should have earned enough to pay them back. She was immensely pleased with that idea. She was sure that even though it should take her as long as it had to rebuild the garden of the House in the Woods that she would some day be able to do it.

The "children" revelled in her reflected glory. They all of them loved knowing that their little Miss-By-the-Day was the mysterious Mademoiselle Folly who'd set the whole town talking.

The Sculptor Girl fairly chortled her glee when she came back from Manhattan after a walk down the avenue and brought an amusing census of the shops that sold "Mademoiselle Folly" novelties!

"Lordy," she related to the Architect's wife, who couldn't even go into the garden these days, "When I think of it I could shout! The toy shops have battledores and shuttlec.o.c.ks! They're actually selling lace mits like Louisa's and coral combs like Octavia's and the hair dressers' shops have windows full of silly wax-headed figures with their hairs all neatly coiffed in the middles and knots tucked down behind like Felice--and the darling doesn't even know it!"

How could she? She never had time for walks down the avenue--it was hard enough to find time for "pretending" these busy days when the carpenters and painters and masons and plumbers descended upon the house to carry out the architect's beautiful plans--the house fairly hummed with activity.

Yet there came a day when the house was still when all the workmen were sent away, when all that dwelt in the house walked restlessly in the garden; a night when Mademoiselle Folly hurried back from her audience with her little fists clinched and when she made Molly come sit and hold her hand. That was the night when in Maman's room the architect's feeble wife fought out her battle; a night that seemed interminable. But early in the morning, after all of them had gone to bed save the doctors and the nurses and Felice, Molly came running up to Mademoiselle D'Ormy's room with the honest tears coursing down her cheeks.

"It's you she wants, darlint, it's you they says can see her--it's a little girl she has--" and Felicia went down the stairway with her gift under her arms, the gift she had found that night when they ransacked the treasures of the storeroom and that she had hidden because she knew directly she peeped at it, what she would do with it.

She knelt by the old sleighback bed and took a thin hand in hers. She smiled into the proud and happy eyes.

"I brought something for her, Mary, I brought her first present. It's vairee old, it is--clothes--I found them first when I was ra-_ther_ little myself." She talked softly, her slender fingers busied themselves with the old leather case. She held up the beautiful wee garments. Even by the dim bedside light the Architect's wife could glimpse their fragile loveliness. She protested faintly,

"You shouldn't give them away--they're so old they're sacred."

"I know they are but I want her to have them. They were Josepha's first clothes, I found that out from Mademoiselle D'Ormy."

"I mustn't take them--"

Felicia laughed softly.

"The nicest part of our all being poor together is that we can give each other anything we have. And I'm proud, proud, proud I have these for her. Isn't she--little--" she touched the tiny cheek longingly, "Oh, Mary, I wish she was mine--she makes me understand something.

It's this. About the Poetry Girl and the Sculptor Girl and you and me.

It's that women aren't half so happy making statues and poems as they are making--gardens--and babies--"

The Architect brought the leather case back to her door as soon as daylight came. He thrust it into her hands as she stood, with her beautiful old dressing gown about her. What they said to each other neither of them remembers. But after he was gone and she had spread out the opened case before her Felicia Day reverently unfolded the papers that had been hidden. They were such yellowed, faded papers with their ancient seals! Those papers that Louisa had found in Madam Folly's boudoir, those papers that Louisa had taken to Paris! Those papers that Octavia had tucked away, smiling to think how Felicia would smile when she found them. Indeed it was Octavia's letter that made everything clear.

Dear Daughter:

Now that you are old enough to understand and Grandy is himself old enough to be more patient I think perhaps you will be the one who will be able to make him forgive Louisa for going to France. He would never let me tell him; I tried to but he wouldn't listen because he thought it was going to be painful; he would only say that the past was over and done with and then he would walk away from me.

We've had such an unfortunate habit, Felice! We women of this family!

We would run away with the men we loved! The first of us to run away was Prudence Langhorne who ran away with an old Frenchman who came to America to try to forget the miserable troubles of his country.

There were many reasons, some of them political, why she couldn't explain who this Frenchman was--and besides I think she was so happy and so busy that she never minded what people thought. She was a little careless about explaining things until it was too late--for she died and left a daughter, Josepha, who never knew that her mother had been really and truly married to her father and who was bitter and unhappy because there was a deal of gossip about her. This Josepha was not asked about whom she wanted to marry. She was just taken to France and married to a man whom she never learned to love and sometimes people taunted her so that after he died she took just one of his names and came back to America with her daughter Louisa and built this house in Montrose Place. She did not think it was time for Louisa to marry. She meant to arrange things carefully when it was--but Louisa was like the rest of us--she fell in love when she was still very young and she ran away with her man--(that was Grandy) and she promised him that she'd always like to be poor with him. She would have, of course, only after her mother died she learned there was a great deal of money that belonged to us and when she knew that I was coming she wanted things for me. So she made a silly mistake. She kept everything a secret from Grandy; she used to go to the lawyer's when he didn't know about it and then some one told Grandy about her going and Grandy misunderstood--he thought she loved her lawyer. So they quarreled and quarreled, for Louisa was furious because he mistrusted her and in the end she was so angry that she sailed away for France with her lawyer. She couldn't make Grandy believe that it was true that she really had business in Paris; he thought it was only an excuse of the lawyer's to take her away. So Grandy went away to war and Louisa stayed in France and that's where I was born and that's where I lived until Louisa died and the Major came for me.

Sometime I hope that Grandy will take you to France and let you live a little while at least in that house. I loved it so--sometimes I think I loved it even more than I loved the House in the Woods or this house.

It was in this house that your father learned to love me--it was in this house here that I waited a long time hoping that the Major would let us marry. You see Louisa, my mother, did leave me these houses and a great deal of money, some of it in France, and Grandy thought your father wanted to get it, so in the end, after we had all been unhappy and wasted many precious years I did like the rest of them--I ran away.

You must not blame Grandy too much. I know that Louisa and her mother Josepha were as much to blame as he.

Felix and I were not patient. We all of us made many, many mistakes.

They look so silly now that we are older but they seemed so necessary when they happened.

When we knew you were coming, your father and I, we used to laugh because you see, I had so many names and a t.i.tle too--and I'd run away from everything just to be with Felix and I'd no way to get at what I owned without going back to Grandy. Besides it seemed to me that what I owned had made all of us unhappy. So we used to say all we'd give you would be the names and the t.i.tles but we'd keep you away from the rest of it--and that we were glad the days of princesses were gone for both our countries, America and France.

But I think that when the time comes, for you to marry you will like to have all these papers that tell you who you are and I think too, that if you are wise, having the houses and the money that belongs to you cannot make you unhappy--I like to think you will find some way to be happier than the rest of us have been, for you have something that none of us had, something that was your legacy from your father. He was very poor, Felice, but everyone loved him because he never let himself be morose or unhappy. He taught me that you can't be happy yourself if you are making anyone else unhappy. He said the delightful thing about not possessing much was that one could be prodigal and extravagant about being happy. He said he had no obligation in this world except to be happy.

He made a game of everything he did whether it was something he liked to do or something he hated to do. Toward the end he had to do many things he hated, that he wasn't strong enough to do. But he did them gaily. He made everyone around him laugh as he did.

When the time comes for you to go out of this world you will have found that so little in it really matters and that everything in it matters so much! It is not until we are ready to go that we know how precious is the thing within us that men call--self. It is made up of all the loves and hates and good and bad of the men and women who went before us. It does not really belong to us. It belongs to all of the people who will come after us. There happened to be only a little of me left to give you, Felice, but the part that is left is the happy part--the rest of me was lost a long time ago. And the t.i.tles and the names that they called me were not any of them so dear as the one you gave me--that is

MAMAN.

Which think you Felicia Day loved more? That letter or the thick old parchments that told her that she was the great-great-granddaughter of a king?

It was the end of June. If you wanted to get little Miss By-the-Day to sew for you the Disagreeable Walnut would tell you that she'd gone away without leaving an address. If you wanted to hear Mademoiselle Folly at the theaters you discovered that she wasn't playing.

But in the house in Montrose Place a shining eyed woman made a new "pattern" for the garden of her life--for the garden of the lives of all the folks she had taken into that house. They did not know all about her. They did not know how large the fortune was that was coming to her. They merely knew that there would be enough to take away the irritating fight for bread and b.u.t.ter and that each one of them would be taken care of until each one of them had taught his or her particular art to provide, and they knew, too, that each one was expected to repay in a "vairee" businesslike way--by helping some other fellow. They all of them knew that Miss By-the-Day was planning to sail for France. They knew it was about something in connection with the French property but they did not know that she was planning the most wonderful "pretend" of her whole life.

The Portia Person was the only one who shared her secret--it was to the Portia Person that she always confided her troubles.

"There is a man I know," she told him, "a man named Dudley Hamilt.

When we were both of us vairee young--he--liked me vairee much. But I went away. And when I came back and he saw me again he did not know me at all. It was vairee hard for me--that time. You see, I looked vairee funny and old. Much more funny than when you saw me. As funny as those little pictures Thad makes so that people will laugh.--I wore Louisa's bonnet and coat--they were such vairee ugly things--and so--he just didn't know me.--But now! I--I want to pretend something! This man--I asked it in the telephone--has been gone away for many weeks in the west on business and he is coming back soon--and I want you to make a way--to bring him to the little rectory yard some evening. It is only a 'pretend' of mine--" she blushed adorably, "perhaps, I can't do it.

But I will try. I will be by the gate and you shall say, 'Here's a girl you used to know, Dudley Hamilt!' And then you'll hurry off and leave it for me--I can't pretend I'm young and pretty but I can pretend I'm--I'm a little amusing--and it will be the last night before I go to France that I do it--so that if--he doesn't--find--me amusing--it won't really matter, because the next day I'll be gone and it will just have been--a 'pretending'--do you mind helping me?"

The Portia Person didn't mind at all. He wiped his eyegla.s.ses and coughed and didn't look at her at all. But he promised.

There was so much for them all to do in those brief days before she sailed. She took a quick journey to the House in the Woods. She rushed back to settle a thousand details about the house in Montrose Street-- joyous details of which perhaps the happiest was the moment she found that the Poetry Girl had named it Octavia's House.

She awoke very early that last day of all. She still slept in the little room at the top of the house. Her modest traveling bags were packed and ready. Over the back of the chair hung her demure traveling coat and veil. But tucked away out of sight in the walnut bureau were a scarf and a carved Spanish comb. The very thoughts of them gave her stage fright. It was only by keeping her mind sternly upon her journey that she could steady herself at all. She dressed herself absent- mindedly in one of Dulcie's much mended frocks,

"Maybe there's a garden with my French house," she thought as she looked down into the back yard. She reached for _The theory and practise of gardening_ and tucked it into the top of Grandy's bag.

All day long the house seethed with the excitement of her leave- taking. Most of the morning belonged to Dulcie, who was still working feverishly on Pandora. The Painter Boy made believe sulk because it was late afternoon before Felice would come to sit for him for the last time. He was really quite through with his painting. It was only because they were all longing to have her in the green gown and he'd promised the women folk that he would keep her so occupied that she wouldn't know what a wonderful farewell party her "children" were planning for her.

She shook her head when she stood looking at the picture.

"It's not I you've painted, Nor', it's some one who's young! Shall I tell you a secret? I do wish you could take all your brushes and make me as lovely as that girl in the picture--oh, Nor'--she hasn't a gray hair!"

"Pouf! Those two or three little gray things that you got worrying about us!" he touched them lightly, "Why do you care how old you are-- "

He kissed the edge of her sleeve awkwardly. His eyes were dancing.

"I guess something--" he teased her. "I guess you only 'pretend'

you're old--"