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By this time Mr. Wopp was bearing a length of pipe into the yard. The parlor looked like a morgue with its inanimate objects lying bidden under sheets and cloths of varying degrees of past usefulness. Through a hole of one sheet could be seen the listless towzled head of Hannah, her faded wax countenance betraying the need of a tonic. “Aint Miss Gordon a lovely dancer?” she interrogated, “and aint she lovely herself? I’ve been watollin’ you an’ her dance all evenin’. Moses says he’s almost wore out one eye lookin’ at you both. He says he don’t go in strong fer teachers, but he thinks Miss Gordon is worth an eyestrain anyways.” He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—.

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By this time Betty was getting hoarse and instructed her perspiring assistant what next to shout and the most fetching modulations of voice to use. The change in program was bellowed in Moses’ raucous voice, “An orstrich here, only fifty cents to see a live trained orstrich!” A huge swallow and he continued, “Brought from Carliforny and trained by the famousest lady Betty Wopp.” After further instructions he went on, “This orstrich is named Job Wopp. He kin lay the largest aig in the world, kin run faster than any horse, could strike you dead with the hoof of his clawr.” Further whispering on the part of Betty and the address concluded, “Yet, ladies and gents, he is as gentle as a spring chicking.” “If she steams,” Harold put in sagely. Gee! It was a scaly trick for a little girl, he thought; and felt sick. Would the plank bend too much? Slip? She was such a little thing—if only she could be a truly fairy for a minute! “Don’t Job look jist like Mariar Mifsud goin’ to meetin’,” gurgled Betty..