Peter had never seen anyone quite like him. He was tall and strong and slender. Even though he was kneeling, Peter knew that he must be of great height. His face was smooth, lean and tanned. His lips were thin--unusually red and delicate for a man's. His nose was straight and arched at the nostrils. His ears were set far back and pointed. But it was by his eyes that Peter recognized him as the Faun Man. They were brown and filmed over with blue like a dog's, showing scarcely any white. They had a dumb appeal in them, a hunger and melancholy because of something which was never found, which the eager happiness of the rest of his appearance disguised. They had a trick of veiling themselves, of becoming dull and focusless, as though the spirit, whose windows they were, had drawn down the blinds and lay drugged with sleep and satiety. Then suddenly they would flash, become torches, all enthusiasm, crying out that there was no truce in the forward march of desire. At such times the face became extremely young--as young as his long fine hands. Only the black hair, brushed straight back from the forehead without a parting, betrayed his age by the gray which grew about the temples. The golden woman withdrew her hand from his, and raised herself on her elbow at the children's entrance. She gazed at them doubtfully, like a young pantheress disturbed. Her red mouth pouted. Her blue eyes feigned a laughing shyness. Only one small foot, tapping against the other, told of her impatience. “Oh, it isn't---- I thought it was Harry. Who are they, Lorie?” Her voice was soft and caressing. She spoke in the “little language” which mothers learn in the nursery. In her way of talking there was a guttural quality which marked her foreign parentage. The Faun Man, unabashed by the unexpected company, bent toward her and kissed her arm. “I don't know,” he laughed. Then he turned with a smile that was all courtesy and kindness, “Won't you tell us? Who are you?” Peter didn't answer at once. He was fascinated. He had never seen a man's ears move like that. As the Faun Man had asked his question, his ears had pricked up as a dog's do when he pays attention. And then there was something about his voice---- It was so sad and intense. It hurt by its longing. It didn't seem right to meet this man in a house. Peter both distrusted and liked him--the way we do nature. The white room became a blur as he gazed into the soft brown eyes. Woods and meadows, seen distant in the sunlight, became flat like painted canvases hung across the windows. Real things grew vague, or took on the aspect of artificiality. The question came again. “Tell us, little chap. Who are you?” Peter's brain cleared. “If you please, we're friends of Harry, the boy with the mouth-organ.”