Then Marigold pushed the table and everything else as far back as possible, and arranged his chair in the best position for him to see, and executed one of the prettiest step-dances imaginable, singing lightly all the time. And how quickly he forgot his tears in watching her! And when it was over, and she sank laughing breathlessly into a chair, a charming heap of rags and golden curls, how he clapped and banged with his little crutch, so that Alice, basting the chicken next door, smiled and was well satisfied, feeling the High Priest quite forgotten. “Oh! I would like that again! I would like that again!” said he. “It was beautiful.” “I know some that would please you still better, only you have to be dressed in yards and yards of silk for them--rags won’t do.” “I like the rags best, then I can see your feet too. How is it you are so beautiful? No one else along the row is.” His eyes were sparkling, and he leant forward in his chair as he asked the question, expecting her to give him some solution to the puzzle. But before she had time to answer--if, indeed, she could have done--the latch was again lifted and the door opened quickly. Marigold, still panting, looked across, startled, and an electric silence settled on the room, as the stranger looked in surprise from one to the other. Personal descriptions are somewhat tedious, you have been introduced to Mr Barringcourt before. And not only surprise, but some displeasure, came into his face. Both of the inmates noticed it, and it brought a restraint into the room that was entirely foreign to it five minutes since. But for all that, he said easily enough: “Good-morning, Tim! You’ve made new friends, I see,” and his voice was pleasant. “Jealous,” said Marigold to herself wisely; whilst Tim answered shyly, looking at her appealingly the while: “Yes, sir--it’s Miss--Miss Rags.” Marigold by this time was standing, her hands folded in front of her, in the delightfully innocent position that so perfectly suited her. “And he says you’re Dr Quack, and I’ve christened him Patches, to make us a trio,” and she looked up at him roguishly, innocence and fun shining in her eyes. But the stranger was not melted by her manner, and did not even take the trouble to smile in reply. He began setting the room to rights, and at the end said to her: “Before you begin those antics again, you’d best sweep the floor well. This kitchen’s full of dust and stew.” Marigold made ready to answer, but he had turned away from her, and was sitting on the table before the fire, his back turned in her direction. Was ever anything more rude, more pointed? Tears of anger were in her eyes, yet she opened the door quietly and slipped out home, closing it as quietly behind her. “Where does she come from, Tim?” asked Mr Barringcourt, nodding his head in that direction when she had passed the window.