Marjorie gave her soft little hand to each in turn, and they bowed over it with almost old-style courtesy. She looked curiously at Constance's father. His daughter did not in any way resemble him. His was the face of a dreamer, rather thin, with clean-cut features and dark eyes that seemed to see past one and into another world of his own creation. In spite of his white hair he was not old. Not more than forty-five, or, perhaps fifty, Marjorie decided. The other man was much older, sixty at least. He was very thin, and his gentle face wore a pathetically vacant expression that brought back to Marjorie the rush of bitter words Constance had poured forth on the day when she had declined to be friends. "We take care of an old man who people say is crazy, and folks call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds." "I came here to see if Constance could go to the theatre with us to-night," explained Marjorie, rather shyly. "No, thank you, I won't sit down. I promised mother I'd hurry home." "It is very kind in you to ask my daughter to share your pleasure," said Constance's father, his somber face lighting with a smile that reminded Marjorie of the sun suddenly bursting from behind a cloud. "I should like to have her go." "Have her go," repeated the thin old man, bowing and beaming. "Is there a band at the theatre?" piped a small, solemn voice. Marjorie smiled down into the earnest, upraised face of the little boy. "Oh, yes, there is a big, big band at the theatre." "Then take me, too," returned the child calmly. "No, no," reproved Constance gently, "Charlie can't go to-night." A grieved look crept into the big black eyes. Without further words the quaint little boy limped over to the old man, whom Constance had addressed as Uncle John, and hid behind him. Forgetting formality, tender-hearted Marjorie sprang after him. She knelt beside him and gathered him into her arms. He made no resistance, merely regarded her with wistful curiosity. "Listen, dear little man," she said, "you and Constance and I will go to the place where the big band plays some Saturday afternoon, and we'll sit on the front seat where you can see every single thing they do. Won't that be nice?" The boy nodded and slipped his tiny hand in hers. "I'm going to play in the band when I grow up," he confided. "Connie can go to-night if she promises to tell me all about it afterward." "You dear little soul," bubbled Marjorie, stroking his thick hair that fell carelessly over his forehead and almost into his bright eyes. "I'll tell you all about everything, Charlie," promised Constance. "That means you will go," cried Marjorie, joyfully, rising from the floor, the child's hand still in hers. "Yes, I will," returned Constance hesitatingly, "only--I--haven't anything pretty to wear." "Pretty to wear," repeated Uncle John faithfully. "Never mind that," reassured Marjorie. "Just wear a fresh white blouse with your blue suit. I'm sure that will look nice."