“Here she is, boys—the Princess Lalla of Con-stan-ti-no-ple, the prettiest girl that ever escaped from the Sultan’s harem! Princess Lalla, favorite crystal-gazer to the Sultan of Turkey before she escaped from his harem, will tell your fortunes, la-dees and gen-tle-men! Princess Lalla sees all, knows all! Just one of the scores of attractions in the Palace of Wonders! Admission 25 cents, one quarter of a dollar, two bits!” Sally bowed, her little brown hands spreading in an enchanting gesture; then she skipped down the steps, the great ropes of black hair, wound with strands of imitation pearls, flapping against the vivid green satin tunic. She was very tired when the supper hour came, but the thought that she would soon see David again lent wings to her sandaled feet. She was about to hurry out of the Palace of Wonders, released at last by the apparently indefatigable spieler, Gus, when a tiny, treble voice called to her: “Princess Lalla! Princess Lalla! Would you mind carrying me to the cars?” Sally, startled, looked everywhere about the tent that was almost emptied of spectators before it dawned on her that the tiny voice had come from “Pitty Sing,” “the smallest woman in the world,” sitting in a child’s little red rocking chair on the platform. All of Sally’s passionate love for little things—especially small children—surged up in her heart. She skipped down the steps of her own particular little platform and ran, with outstretched hands, to the midget. “Pitty Sing” was indeed a pretty thing, a very doll of a woman, the flaxen hair on her small head marcelled meticulously, her little plump cheeks and pouting, babyish lips tinted with rouge. In her miniature hands she was holding a newspaper, which was so big in comparison with her midget size that it served as a complete screen. “Of course I’ll carry you. I’m so glad you’ll let me,” Sally glowed and dimpled. “You little darling, you!” “Please don’t baby me!” Pitty Sing admonished her in a severe little voice. “I’m old enough to be your mother, even if I’m not big enough.” And the tiny, plump hands began to fold the newspapers with great definiteness. Sally’s eyes, abashed, fluttered from the disapproving little face to the paper. Odd that so tiny a thing could read—but of course she was grown up, even if she was only 29 inches tall— “Oh, please!” Sally gasped, going very pale under the brown powder. “May I see your paper for just a minute?” For her eyes had caught sight of a name which had been burned into her memory, forever indelible—the name of Carson.