The boys’ delight was satisfying even to Cis, who passionately longed to put four hours and better of unadulterated joy into these meagre little lives. They went on a violent hunt for her hidden boxes of candy, unearthed them, every one, and willingly gave each boy who had been slower than the rest the share which he had failed to discover. They played games, yelling like mad, till, at last, they were ready to drop down on the platform put up for dancing, upon which Cis insisted as a seat because the high temperature of this summerlike April day had not had time to dry the wet ground. They subsided to munch candy and let her have her way with them. Cis had carefully planned her story, and she told it well, the story of an imaginary little Roman boy, who might have lived, who dearly loved St. Sebastian. She told them how this brave young soldier and his little friend had died, for she made her fictitious little citizen of the City of the Catacombs share the fate of the older youth, whose story was true. Then leaning toward the lads whose eyes were fixed upon her own, clasping her hands, her eager face flushed and earnest, her glorious red hair shining under a ray of sunshine until it seemed to illumine the shady glen, Cis begged her little adorers to hold fast to that for which Sebastian’s arrows had been faced, for which those little lads of old--and many since--had truly lived and gladly died. Thus it was that Anselm Lancaster, coming down the glen from behind her, found Cis, and paused to wonder, with reverence added to the admiration he had already learned to feel for her. One of the boys discovered him, and started up from his prone position, with a threatening gesture. “Who’s de guy? Here, this is a private show; no buttin’ in!” he cried. Anselm Lancaster laughed, and came forward as Cis leaped up and faced him, knowing at the first syllable of her indignant little guest’s protest, whom she should see. “It is a mean trick to butt in, I’m afraid,” Mr. Lancaster said. “Miss Adair, will you tolerate a larger boy here?” He stood smiling, tall and handsome, as different from ordinary men as Tom had described him; as far beyond them, Cis thought, seeing him anew after so long a time. “Mr. Lancaster!” she cried, as if she had not been expecting him all the afternoon; wondering in the back of her brain why he did not come; if it had not been he, after all, whom Tom had seen in the station. “Where did you come from? And how glad I am that you did come!” “Then you don’t resent what your small friend here calls my butting in?” Mr. Lancaster suggested, looking no less happy than the smallest boy there. “I went to see you, but your friend Mrs.?--Nan?--told me that you were away, and how to find you. She seemed to think I might come to the glen. You look well? Yes, I think you look well, but I’m not sure of it; you are not just as you were in Beaconhite, are you?” “No, I’m not,” said Cis. “But I’m perfectly well. What of Miss Braithwaite?”