It was the child who completed her scrutiny first. She glanced about her appraisingly. “A very beautiful exterior you have here,” she remarked, somewhat loftily. Mrs. Thornburg smiled rapturously at this. A warm hue stole into her cheeks. “I’m glad you like it,” she said. She glanced at Baron now, with joyous wonder in her eyes. “We think it’s pretty,” she added. “It might make you think of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy-tales, mightn’t it?” It was plain that she was feeling her way cautiously. “We might imagine we were the children who played under the juniper-tree--though I’m not sure an apple-tree would pass for a juniper-tree.” Bonnie May nodded amiably. “Or it might remind you of a Shakespeare setting,” she suggested. The woman regarded her anew with a look of wonder, and pique, and delight; and then it was evident that she had reached the limits of her restraint. With hands that trembled she drew the child slowly toward her, until she had the radiant face pressed against her breast. “Dear child, do try to love me, won’t you?” she pleaded, and Baron saw that her face twitched, and that her eyes were offering a prayer to the soft sky in which the first stars of evening were just blossoming. Then, almost stealthily, he left them. * * * * * Baggot was waiting for him in front of the house when he reached home. To be exact, the young playwright was sitting on the front step, nervously puffing a cigarette. “What took you out this time in the evening?” he demanded. “I’ve been taking Bonnie May for a visit.” “Oh!--her. I wanted to ask you. Who is she?” Baron was unlocking the door. “Her name is Bonnie May,” he said. “Oh, I know that. I mean, who is she? A grandchild, or something?” “I haven’t any grandchildren. Suppose we go into the house.” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t know who she is. It seems a pity to me that you can’t say something.” Baggot threw his cigarette into the street and followed Baron into the house and up into the attic. Arrived there he renewed his attack. “While it seems improbable that you can add anything to the very explicit account you have given me of Bonnie May, I’d like to say that I’m curious to know who she is.” Baron turned upon him quietly. “In view of your unchallengeable right to ask questions about a guest who happens to be in this house, I will explain that she is an actress by profession, and that being out of an engagement just now, she is accepting our hospitality.” Baggot was undisturbed. He exclaimed: “Well, I thought----!” “You thought----?” “That I recognized her! Her ways, I mean. You could tell there was something about her....” “Well,” concluded Baron, “now let’s see what’s up.” He had turned on the light, and now he shoved a chair in Baggot’s direction. “What do you think of the play?” demanded Baggot. “I haven’t read it yet.” [Illustration: “Dear child, do try to love me, won’t you?”]