“I don't,” retorted the fairy, mutinously. “Who is the Bonnie Lassie? You all have such queer names here, Mr. Dominie!” “In private life she's Mrs. Cyrus Staten: otherwise Cecily Willard.” The golden lights in the fairy's eyes deepened with astonishment. “Not the famous Miss Willard who does the figurines! Does she live way down here in this--this--” “Slum,” I supplied. “Don't be afraid to say it. Our Square isn't sensitive to what outsiders think of us.” “This nice, queer old park,” concluded the fairy with dignity. “And I suppose she is very old and wise and--is she kind?” “She is very young and lovely to look at and as wise as she needs to be for her own happiness and--come along and see her.” “But you mustn't tell her--'' was as far as she got when the Bonnie Lassie came out of the studio with a smudge of clay on the tip of her chin, and regarded my pink and captive fairy with undisguised amazement. “This young discovery of mine,” I explained, “has come to Our Square for the purpose of _not_ seeing the Little Red Doctor. Dead-Men's-Shoes struck up a professional acquaintance with her in the country and told her about the Doctor--whom she doesn't want to see--being in Our Square. As she hasn't seen him for several years and as he has been trying hard and conscientiously to forget her, she has come, _incognita_, where he is, in order to keep on not seeing him and to discover whether he has forgotten. It's all just as simple as it sounds.” My fairy suddenly became a person, and a very decided person. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am _not incognita_. My name is Ethel Bennington, and I think you are a very unkind old man.” The Bonnie Lassie set a slender, strong hand on the visitor's wrist and drew her within. “Never mind him, my dear,” she said softly. “He isn't really unkind. He's just a tease.” She paused and studied her caller a moment. Then, with her irresistible smile, she said: “I know it's dreadful of me--but, _would_ you mind if I just sketched you hastily?” Now, that may have been the artist of it breaking through, or it may have been just the way of her invincible tact and management; you never can tell, with the Bonnie Lassie. But it's a proven fact that nobody can sit to her without giving up his heart's secrets, and sometimes she puts them in the bronze. Most unfairly I was banished, for the brown-and-gold fairy with a flush of pleasure said she'd sit at once. And from that sitting grew another sitting and another and many to follow. Sometimes I was bidden in. It was a sheer delight to sit there and watch those two young creatures, the sculptress gay and sunny and splendid in the glad beauty of power and achievement; the model, wistful, sweet, and vivid by turns, a fairy from a brighter world bringing her fairy gold to our grim and dusty neighborhood. Out of a working silence the brown-and-gold fairy spoke one day. “Is he poor?” “Is who--” I began. But the quicker apprehension of the artist cut in on me.