Mitchy-Mitch immediately stopped crying and gazed upon his benefactor with the eyes of a dog. This world! Thereafter did Penrod--with complete approval from Mitchy-Mitch--play the accordion for his lady to his heart's content, and hers. Never had he so won upon her; never had she let him feel so close to her before. They strolled up and down upon the sidewalk, eating, one thought between them, and soon she had learned to play the accordion almost as well as he. So passed a happy hour, which the Good King Rene of Anjou would have envied them, while Mitchy-Mitch made friends with Duke, romped about his sister and her swain, and clung to the hand of the latter, at intervals, with fondest affection and trust. The noon whistles failed to disturb this little Arcady; only the sound of Mrs. Jones' voice for the third time summoning Marjorie and Mitchy-Mitch to lunch--sent Penrod on his way. “I could come back this afternoon, I guess,” he said, in parting. “I'm not goin' to be here. I'm goin' to Baby Rennsdale's party.” Penrod looked blank, as she intended he should. Having thus satisfied herself, she added: “There aren't goin' to be any boys there.” He was instantly radiant again. “Marjorie----” “Hum?” “Do you wish I was goin' to be there?” She looked shy, and turned away her head. “MARJORIE JONES!” (This was a voice from home.) “HOW MANY MORE TIMES SHALL I HAVE TO CALL YOU?” Marjorie moved away, her face still hidden from Penrod. “Do you?” he urged. At the gate, she turned quickly toward him, and said over her shoulder, all in a breath: “Yes! Come again to-morrow morning and I'll be on the corner. Bring your 'cordion!” And she ran into the house, Mitchy-Mitch waving a loving hand to the boy on the sidewalk until the front door closed. CHAPTER XIX THE INNER BOY Penrod went home in splendour, pretending that he and Duke were a long procession; and he made enough noise to render the auricular part of the illusion perfect. His own family were already at the lunch-table when he arrived, and the parade halted only at the door of the dining-room. “Oh SOMETHING!” shouted Mr. Schofield, clasping his bilious brow with both hands. “Stop that noise! Isn't it awful enough for you to SING? Sit DOWN! Not with that thing on! Take that green rope off your shoulder! Now take that thing out of the dining-room and throw it in the ash-can! Where did you get it?” “Where did I get what, papa?” asked Penrod meekly, depositing the accordion in the hall just outside the dining-room door. “That da--that third-hand concertina.” “It's a 'cordian,” said Penrod, taking his place at the table, and noticing that both Margaret and Mr. Robert Williams (who happened to be a guest) were growing red. “I don't care what you call it,” said Mr. Schofield irritably. “I want to know where you got it.” Penrod's eyes met Margaret's: hers had a strained expression.