“Now the next will be twelve,” Cynthia said, though of course that wouldn’t mean anything to this infant, and turned the hands again. This time the bird gave a most satisfactory performance. By the time his song was finished the child’s face was so close to the little flapping doors that Cynthia was afraid she would pop inside, out of sheer rapturous delight. “If I could get her, just so, with her head turned like that, and those quaint little pigtails, and the sunlight behind her--but I’m afraid I’m not clever enough,” mourned Cynthia. “No; it’s impossible.” Then to the child, “Birdie’s all gone, my dear. No more today. I refuse to ruin M. Marge’s wedding present just because a Basque baby wants to hear the cuckoo clock. Sit down won’t you, and amuse me while I work.” Monsieur Marge came up the walk from his beehives. He said something in Basque to the child, who answered stammeringly. “She should not be here,” he explained. “She lives down there, the Yturbe house. She is the only one left. The two sons died in the war, and this is the only grandchild. The old people worship her. I will take her home.” Cynthia was sorry to see her go. “I wish I could paint her,” she thought again wistfully, but she knew M. Marge was not on good enough terms with his neighbors to make the unusual request. This was not Paris, where everyone knew about artists and where models seem to drop ripe from every lamp-post, blossom in every _zinc_ with your breakfast cocoa. That afternoon a hive of bees swarmed and M. Marge was so busy with them that the little cuckoo clock waited another night unoiled, upon the verandah. “I’ll do the job tomorrow and put it back in the morning,” he promised Madame. “It is quite safe there.” But apparently it wasn’t so safe. At least when Cynthia came down to breakfast M. Marge reported the clock was gone. “Gone? ... The cuckoo clock?” Cynthia heard herself repeating idiotically. “Well! but goodness! Who on earth would take it?” M. Marge shook his head and Madame, pouring the morning chocolate, murmured something in Basque. “She says she is sorry to lose our wedding present.” “Oh dear, I feel terribly responsible,” mourned Cynthia. “If I only hadn’t asked you to bring it out and show me.” “It is my own fault.” The old man became firmly cheerful. “Mais non, Mademoiselle, I am a careless old man. I should not have left the clock on the verandah. But the Basque are honest peepul. We do not steal and we are too far from the town for gypsies or tramps. I cannot figure it out.”