“Where did you get such beautiful roses?” inquired Mrs. Baron, wholly by way of interruption. The arch of her eyebrows was as a weather-signal which Flora never disregarded. She changed the subject. She had much to say about her ride. But her eyes kept straying back to Bonnie May, who remained silent, her body leaning slightly forward, her head pitched back, her eyes devouring Miss Baron’s face. The attitude was so touchingly childlike that Flora had visions of herself in a big rocking-chair, putting the little thing to sleep, or telling her stories. “Only until to-morrow,” her mother had said, but no one was asking for the child anywhere. Of course she would stay until--until---- “Yes,” she said absent-mindedly, in response to a question by her mother, “they brought me home in their car. They were so lovely to me!” Her eyes strayed back to Bonnie May, whose rapt gaze was fixed upon her. The child flushed and smiled angelically. * * * * * If any constraint was felt during the dinner-hour, Bonnie May was evidently less affected than the others at table. The one test which might have been regarded as a critical one--the appearance of the head of the household--was easily met. Mr. Baron came home a little late and immediately disappeared to dress for dinner. Bonnie May did not get even a glimpse of him until the family took their places at table. “Hello! Who said there weren’t any more fairies?” was his cheerful greeting, as he stood an instant beside his chair before he sat down. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a pointed gray beard, which seemed always to have been of its present color, rather than to suggest venerableness. He had piercing gray eyes, which seemed formidable under their definite black eyebrows. However, his eyes readily yielded to a twinkle when he smiled. He still adhered rigidly to the custom of dressing formally for dinner, and he entertained a suspicion that Victor’s vocation, which consisted of literary work of some indefinite kind, was making him sadly Bohemian, since his son did not perceive the need of being so punctilious. “It’s not as if we had company often,” was Victor’s defense, on one occasion, of the course he had adopted; but his father’s retort had been that “they were still in the habit of dining with one another.” “A little girl we are sheltering to-night,” was Mrs. Baron’s explanation to her husband, who still regarded the child at the opposite end of the table. “I am Bonnie May,” amended the child. “I am very glad to meet you, I’m sure.” She smiled graciously and nodded with such dignity as was compatible with a rather difficult position. She was occupying an “adult” chair, and little more than her head and shoulders was visible. She had briefly yet firmly discouraged the suggestion that she sit on a book. “A--protégée of Victor’s,” added Mrs. Baron, with the amiable malice which the family easily recognized.