“They” had been “close after” pretty much everybody in Hilda’s cyclone-cellar world for a long time now. He looked the part, and this was the one thing he could have said without jarring the dream, without so much as brushing the down from the tip of its rainbow wing. At the words, she sank back gratefully into the realm of the fabulous, and he receded from the world of reality to follow her there. “Why, yes,—your—” she hesitated an instant. “Your Majesty,” she whispered, just above her breath. Perhaps he was not quite sure of the word; perhaps he was too perturbed to notice such a detail. “Quick!” he urged; “show me how to get in there.” Something about his face challenged and puzzled her. There was a haunting resemblance about the look of his eyes. Yet all realities strove vainly for more than vague recognition now. She was in a sort of rapture as she leaned forward and whispered: “Stay for me; I will not fail you.” Then, to make sure: “I’m coming. I’ll bring you in here.” She gathered up her draperies and ran. The daylight world of the Three Sorrows had never seen those trailing, faded splendors, ravished from Aunt Val’s cast-offs; but haste was indicated. A moment later, to the young fellow at the spring, hanging doubtfully on his heel, a hunted glance over his shoulder, preparing for flight, there came skimming across the grass a quaint figure. The dress of Hilda’s contriving trailed behind her flying feet, the tangle of mist-fine dark curls was half covered by a coiffing veil, worn in the manner of castle ladies as they appear in the frontispieces of feudal romances. The fugitive looked in wonder. She ran to him and took his hand and pulled him toward the house. He held back a little, but she urged vehemently: “You’ll have to come right through here. It’s the only way.” In the kitchen door, at sight of the Chinese cook, the young fellow checked wildly. Hilda gripped his hand in both hers, and dropped momentarily out of her part to explain: “It’s only Sam Kee. He doesn’t count. He never tells on me—do you, Sam?” The Chinaman looked placidly about eighteen inches over their heads, smiled, and seemed to imply that the room was empty except for himself. There was something reassuring in this attitude, and Hilda’s chance guest followed her quickly down the cellar steps, behind the pile of boxes, and through the passage that led to the cyclone chamber. “Are you—are you an-hungered?” she asked, with a sort of half-tentative hardihood. He dropped down on the box seat and eyed the food with an air so exactly suited to his rôle that she took heart and fell into the familiar phraseology: “Here is the humble meal I have provided. If you will rest and refresh yourself, I’ll, I’ll—” Her voice trailed a bit at last. The newcomer was looking at her with so sharp an inquisition that it sent a vague pang through her heart.