He had a sudden fear that she was one of those pitiable creatures whose minds grow old but whose bodies remain the same from year to year. “I don’t know,” she replied, instantly troubled. “Miss Barry never would tell me.” “Well, how far back can you remember?” “Oh, quite a long time. I know I had a real speaking part as long as four seasons ago. I’ve been doing little Eva off and on over two years.” He was greatly relieved. “It seems to me,” he said severely, “that you know about plays which a little girl ought not to know anything about.” “Oh! Well, I was with Miss Barry in lots of plays that I didn’t have any part in, unless it might be to help out with the populace, or something like that. And we did stock work for a while, with a new play every week.” Somehow this speech had the effect of restoring her to favor with Baron. Her offenses were clearly unconscious, unintended, while her alertness, her discernment, were very genuine and native. What a real human being she was, after all, despite her training in the unrealities of life! And how quick she was to see when she had offended, and how ready with contrition and apology! Surely that was the sort of thing that made for good breeding--even from the standpoint of a Baron or a Boone! They traversed the upper hall until they reached an immense front room which was filled with the mellow sunlight of the late afternoon, and which was invitingly informal and untidy in all its aspects. It was one of those rooms which seem alive, because of many things which speak eloquently of recent occupation and of the certainty of their being occupied immediately again. A square piano, pearl inlaid and venerable, caught Bonnie May’s eyes. “Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed. She stood a moment, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Yes,” she added musingly, “I can actually see them.” “See whom?” Baron demanded, slightly impatient. “The nice, sweet girls, wearing crinoline, and dancing with their arms around one another’s waists, and one of them sitting at the piano playing, and looking over her shoulder at the others. There are tender smiles on their lips, and their eyes are shining like anything. They are so dear and happy!” Baron frowned. Why should the child associate the house, his home, only with things so remote with respect to time and place? It was a jealously guarded family secret that life was relentlessly passing on, leaving them stranded in old ways. But was a child--a waif picked up in pity, or in a spirit of adventure--to wrest the secret from among hidden things and flaunt it in his face? She had gone into the big bay window and was standing with one hand on the long willow seat, covered with pale-hued cushions. For the moment she was looking down upon the bit of grass-plot below. “Make yourself at home,” invited Baron. “I won’t be long.” He went back to his mother. He wished she might have heard what the child had said about the girls who were dancing, far away in the past.