“Poor Pitty Sing!” Sally soothed her, as she picked her way carefully over the grass stubble to the big dress tent which also served as sleeping quarters for the women performers of the “Palace of Wonders.” “Haven’t you anyone to look after you? Anyone belonging to you, I mean?” “Why should I have?” the indignant little piping voice demanded from Sally’s shoulder. “I’m a woman grown, as I’ve reminded you before. I’ve been paying Nita five dollars a week to carry me to and from the show tent for each performance. Of course there are a few other little things she does for me, but if you’d like to have the position I think we would get along very nicely.” “Oh, I’m sure of it!” Sally exalted, laying her cheek for an instant against the flaxen, marcelled little head. “Thank you, Pitty Sing, thank you with all my heart!” “Please don’t call me ‘Pitty Sing’,” the little voice commanded tartly. “The name does very well for exhibition purposes, but my name is Miss Tanner—Elizabeth Matilda Tanner.” “Oh, I’m sorry!” Sally protested, hurt and abashed. “I didn’t mean—I—” “But you may call me Betty.” The treble was suddenly sweet and sleepy like a child’s. One of the miniature hands fluttered out inadequately to help Sally part the flaps of the dress tent, which was deserted except for the fat girl, already asleep and snoring stertorously. Sally knelt to enable the midget to stand on the beaten down stubble which served as the only carpet of Sally’s new “dormitory.” “Thank you, Sally,” the midget piped, her eyes lifted toward Sally out of a network of wrinkles which testified that she was indeed a “woman grown.” “You’re a very nice little girl, and your David is one of the handsomest men I ever saw.” “_Your David!_” Sally’s heart repeated the words, sang them, crooned over them, but she did not answer, except with one of her rare, sudden, sweet smiles. “Nita evidently thinks so, too,” the weak little treble went on, as “Pitty Sing” trotted toward her cot, looking like an animated doll. “I might as well warn you right now, Sally, that I don’t trust that Nita person as far as I can throw a bull by the horns.” She flung her dire pronouncement over a tiny, pink-silk shoulder as she knelt before a small metal trunk and reached into her bosom for a key suspended around her neck on a chain. Sally’s desire to laugh at the preposterous picture of the midget throwing a bull by the horns was throttled by a new and particularly horrid fear. “What—do you mean, Betty?” she gasped. “Has Nita—”