Hearing father sigh, as he watches the dawn that beckons to arise instead of sleep, I essay to comfort him. “Dear father, has not God sent us here to convert them?” “Too intelligent,” he mutters; “they will convert us.” Science is his religion. [Illustration: Decoration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “Know’st thou the house? On columns rest its pile; Its halls are gleaming And its chambers smile.” —_Goethe_. Waking early, my prayer goes up to God, with my whole consciousness borne intact. So when we miss a link in our self-calculated program of events, we look to Him, the holder of the links of us—his marionettes below. Charley rushes in with a bundle. I speak: “Are you up, dear, and not sorry that we came?” “Haven’t time. Get up and see your new dress.” I sit up. “Invisible garments,” he explains. I hurry to him to find only the usual feathered robes, that in tint and style give all an appearance of the feathered tribe. Tufted cap and sweeping train; wing sleeves, with which, could we fly, we would be the angels we are called. “But where is the invisible?” I inquire. “Dressed like everybody else, not visible, because not conspicuous,” settles that problem. I take the hint and hastily get into the suit assigned me, but not as quick as he, for he is dressed, and out, and down the hall, while I admire myself in the glittering ice-mirror walls, vanity for a moment overcoming homesickness to forget that such an unhuman-like attire, though beautiful in heaven’s songsters, is more beautiful, even, in a civilized American. In bounds Saucy—that is what we nickname Mae. “Where is my dress?” “Here.” She is soon in it, her flowing hair making her a canary. Bowing to me in mockery, she says: “We belong here now. Where is Charley,” looking around. “Gone out,” I reply. “I am going to catch him.” “So am I.” She calls him Charley, because I do, and that he is not her uncle; nor am I her aunt, which she uses in lieu of Anna. Running out so hastily we run smack into the arms of Show Off, which we immediately see is not him, but probably his father, from the likeness, who grasps us in each hand, holding us out for inspection, saying, “I have caught two little birds that have flown to me.” (Like pigeons, I wish we could fly home again.) “We have no cage here, only freedom; so now I let you go,” suiting the action to the word. Cordial as sedate, I watch him as he walks down the hall and disappears. In trying to find Charley, we find ourselves in the city street.