She looked. Ahead the tops of the grass blades were swaying this way and that in a winding path--as if from the passage of some crawling thing!

"She tried to get me out of the way!"

"Oh, tell me where is my fath-er!"

"Why, of _course_. They say he's--"

He did not finish; or if he did she heard no end to the sentence. Of a sudden her face had grown almost painfully hot--as a great yellow light flamed against it, a light that shimmered up dazzlingly from the surface of a broad treeless field. This field was like none that she had ever imagined. For its acres were neatly sodded with _mirrors_.

The little company was on the beveled edge of the field. To halt them, and conspicuously displayed, was a sign. It read--

_Keep off The Glass._

"'Keep off the glass,'" read Gwendolyn. "And I don't wonder. 'Cause we'd crack it."

"We don't crack it, we cross it," reminded the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And stepped boldly upon the gleaming plate.

"My! My!" exclaimed the Piper. "Ain't there a _fine_ crop this year!"

A fine crop? Gwendolyn glanced down. And saw for the first time that the mirrored acres were studded, flower-like, with countless silk-shaded candles!

What curious candles they were! They did not grow horizontally, as she had imagined they must, but upright and candle-like. Above their sticks, which were of brass, silver and decorated porcelain, was a flame, ruddy of tip, sharply pointed, but fat and yellow at the base, where the soft white wax fed the fire; at the other end of the sticks, as like the top light as if it were a perfect reflection, was a second flame. These were candles that burned _at both ends_.

And this was the region she had traveled so far to find! Her heart beat so wildly that it stirred the plaid of the little gingham dress.

"Say! I hear a quacking!" announced Puffy, staring up into the sky.

Gwendolyn heard it, too. It seemed to come from across the Field of Double-Ended Candles. She peered that way, to where a heavy fringe of trees walled the farther side greenily.

She saw him first!--while the others (excepting the Bird) were still staring skyward. At the start, what she discerned was only a faint outline on the tree-wall--the outline of a man, broad-shouldered, tall, but a trifle stooped. It was faint for the reason that it blended with the trees. For the man was garbed in green.

As he advanced into the field, the chorus of quacks grew louder. And presently Gwendolyn caught certain familiar expressions--"Oh, don't bozzer me!" "Sit up straight, Miss! Sit up straight!" (this a rather deep quack). "My dear child, you have no sense of time!" And, "What on earth ever put such a question into your head!" She concluded that the expressions were issuing from the large bell-shaped horn which was pointed her way over one shoulder of the man in green. The talking-machine to which the horn was attached--a handsome mahogany affair--he carried on his back. It was not unlike a hand-organ. Which made Gwendolyn wonder if he was not the Man-Who-Makes-Faces' brother.

She glanced back inquiringly at the little old gentleman. Either the stranger _was_ a relation--and not a popular one--or else the quacking expressions annoyed. For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was scowling. And, "Cavil, criticism, correction!" he scolded, half to himself.

He in green now began to move about and gather silk-shaded candles, bending this way and that to pluck them, and paying not the slightest attention to the group of watchers in plain view. But not one of these was indifferent to _his_ presence. And all were acting in a most incomprehensible manner. With one accord, Doctor and Piper, Bear and Policeman, Face-maker and Bird, were rubbing hard at the palm of one hand. There being no trees close by, the men used the sole of a shoe, while Puffy raked away at one paw with the claws of the others, and the Bird pecked a foot with his beak.

And yet Gwendolyn could not believe that it was really _he_.

The Policeman drew near. "You've heard of Hobson's choice?" he inquired in a low voice. "Perhaps this is Hobson, or Sam Hill, or Punch, or Great Scott."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces shook his head. "You don't know him," he answered, "because recently, when the bears were bothering him a lot in his Street, I made him a long face."

The man in green was pausing where the candles clustered thickest.

Gwendolyn, still doubtful, went forward to greet him.

"How do you do, sir," she began, curtseying.

His face was long, as the Man-Who-Makes-Faces had pointed out--very long, and pale, and haggard. Between his sunken temples burned his dark-rimmed eyes. His nose was thin, and over it the skin was drawn so tightly that his nostrils were pinched. His lips were pressed together, driving out the blood. His cheeks were hollow, and shadowed bluely by a day-old beard. He had on a hat. Yet she was able (curiously enough!) to note that his hair was sparse over the top of his head, and streaked with gray.

Nevertheless there was no denying that she recognized him dimly.

Something knotted in her throat--at seeing weariness, anxiety, even torture, in those deep-set eyes. "I think I've met you before somewhere," she faltered. "Your--your long face--" The Bird was perched on the forefinger of one hand. She proffered the other.

He did not even look at her. "My hands are full," he declared. And again, "My hands are full."

She glanced at them. And saw that each was indeed full--of paper money.

Moreover, the green of his coat was the green of new crisp bills. While his buff-colored trousers were made of yellowish ones, carefully creased.

He was literally _made of money_.

Now she felt reasonably certain of his identity. Yet she determined to make even more sure. "Would you mind just turning around for a moment?"

she inquired.

"But I'm busy to-day," he protested, "I can't be bothered with little girls. I'll see you when you're eight years old." Nevertheless he faced about accommodatingly.

The moment he turned his back he displayed a detail of his dress that had not been visible before. This detail, at first glance, appeared to be a smart leather piping. On second glance it seemed a sort of shawl-strap contrivance by which the talking-machine was suspended. But in the end she knew what it was--a leather harness!--an exceedingly handsome, silver-buckled, hand-sewed harness!

She went around him and raised a smiling face--caught at a hand, too; and felt her own happy tears make cool streaks down her cheeks. "I--I don't see you often," she said, "bu-but I know you just the same.

You're--you're my fath-er!"

At that, he glanced down at her--stooped--picked a candle--and held it close to her face.

"Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"

"Poor little _rich_ girl," she prompted, noting that he had left out the word.

She heard a sob!

The next moment, _Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!_ And at her feet the gay-topped candles were bent this way and that--as Miss Royle, with an artful serpent-smile on her bandaged face, writhed her way swiftly between them!

"Dearie," she hissed, making an affectionate half-coil about Gwendolyn, "what _do_ you think I'm going to say to you!"

Gwendolyn only shook her head.

"_Guess_, darling," encouraged the governess, coiling herself a little closer.

"Maybe you're going to say, 'Use your dictionary,'" ventured Gwendolyn.

"Oh, dearie!" chided Miss Royle, managing a very good blush for a snake.

But now Gwendolyn guessed the reason for the other's sudden display of affection. For that scaly head was rising out of the grass, inch by inch, and those glittering serpent eyes were fixed upon the Bird!

Unable to move, he watched her, plumage on end, round eyes fairly starting.

"_Cheep! Cheep!_"

At his cry of terror, the Doctor interposed. "I think we'd better take the Bird out of here," he said. "The less noise the better." And with that, he lifted the small frightened thing from Gwendolyn's finger.