“Mother!” was Flora’s hesitating remonstrance, and Victor paid such studious heed to the folding of his napkin that it was evident he was trying to hide his discomfort. In a moment he spoke--quite casually: “I’m afraid it will be lonesome up there for her, mother. Suppose you let her have my room to-night. I won’t mind giving it up.” “Nonsense! There’s no need of your being disturbed.” Mrs. Baron’s forehead was still creased by menacing horizontal lines. The guest interposed. The family was rising, and she stood with her back to the table. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Baron,” she said evenly, “I’ll go back and make friends with Mrs. Shepard. You know I dearly love the people who take the--the character parts. They’re usually so comfortable!” “Well, run along.” She tried not to speak impatiently. She felt that there was general disapproval of her mood. The guest went into the kitchen. At the door she turned. “It was a lovely dinner,” she said politely. Then she disappeared. Silence followed, and the family dispersed. Mr. Baron was going out somewhere. Victor strolled musingly up into the library. Flora followed her mother up into the sitting-room. There was a good deal of mental tension, considering the very slight foundation for it. In the kitchen Bonnie May’s glad bearing vanished. She became strangely pensive for a little girl. Mrs. Baron did not like her! That was evident. Yet what had she done, save to take her own part, as she had always had to do? Mrs. Shepard did not realize that the child was troubled. When children were troubled, according to Mrs. Shepard’s experience, their lips trembled or their eyes filled with tears. There were no such signs to be read in Bonnie May’s face. She was standing there in that dazed fashion because she was in a strange place, of course. “Wait until my work’s done and I’ll bake you a little cake!” said Mrs. Shepard. She was delighted with the idea. It occurred to her that it would be a great pleasure to bake a little cake for the child. “A little cake?” responded Bonnie May dubiously. “It’s kind of you, you know, but really I’ve just dined.” She put all troubled thoughts away from her. The kitchen was really a wonderful place. She examined various utensils with interest. They had all been _used_. She had seen many of these things before, but they had always been shiny and new. The property-man had taken care of them. A little bell above Mrs. Shepard’s head tinkled energetically. The housekeeper sighed heavily and began wiping her hands hastily. “What is it?” inquired Bonnie May. “The front-door bell,” was the answer. “Oh! how interesting. Let me answer it--do!” And before Mrs. Shepard could carefully consider the matter, she gave a reluctant consent. She would have explained what one should do under certain contingencies, but there hadn’t been time. Bonnie May was gone.