5c
 
 Bonnie May
 
 OF 04LIF. LIBRARY. LOS
 
 She assumed a slightly careless air and looked airily at 
 imaginary objects. 
 
 (Page 144.)
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 By 
 
 Louis Dodge 
 
 Illustrations by 
 
 Reginald Birch 
 
 A strolling player comes 
 
 New York 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons 
 1916
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published August, 1916
 
 TO 
 
 THE LITTLE NEW ENGLAND GIRL 
 
 WHO (iN COMPANY WITH HER MOTHER) 
 MADE FRIENDS WITH AN AMERICAN SOLDIER 
 
 ON A JUNE DAY IN 1898 
 IN THE MARKET-PLACE IN HONOLULU 
 
 AND PROMISED 
 "l SHALL NEVER TORGET YOU " 
 
 2129351
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE INTRUSION OF AN ACTRESS i 
 
 II. A MOMENTOUS DECISION 15 
 
 III. MRS. BARON DECIDES 24 
 
 IV. A CRISIS 36 
 
 V. BONNIE MAY OPENS THE DOOR 46 
 
 VI. CONCERNING A FROCK 59 
 
 VII. A SUNDAY MORNING 75 
 
 VIII. STILL UNCLAIMED 86 
 
 IX. A DISAPPOINTING PERFORMANCE 95 
 
 X. THE WHITE ELEPHANT . no 
 
 XI. How A CONVEYANCE CAME FOR BONNIE MAY 
 
 AND How IT WENT AWAY 121 
 
 XII. RELATES TO THE PLAYING OF PARTS .... 137 
 
 XIII. A MYSTERIOUS SEARCH BEGINS 146 
 
 XtV. MR. ADDIS RECEIVES SUPPORT 155 
 
 XV. A QUESTION OF RECONSTRUCTION 169 
 
 vii
 
 Contents 
 
 CEAPTEX PAGX 
 
 XVI. MRS. THORNBURG REVEALS A SECRET . . 184 
 
 XVH. "A KIND or DUEL" 193 
 
 XVIII. MRS. BARON TAKES UP THE GAUNTLET . 202 
 
 XIX. BONNIE MAY LOOKS BACK 218 
 
 XX. CONCERNING LAUGHTER 230 
 
 XXI. AN EXIT AND AN ENTRANCE 244 
 
 XXII. BAGGOT'S PLAY 257 
 
 XXIII. BARON COMES HOME ON A BEER-DRAY . 267 
 
 XXIV. BONNIE MAY HIDES SOMETHING 279 
 
 XXV. BONNIE MAY SEES Two FACES AT A 
 
 WINDOW 289 
 
 XXVT. A GATHERING IN THE ATTIC 298 
 
 XXVH. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE ATTIC 310 
 
 XXVHI. AFTER THE CURTAIN WAS LOWERED. . . 321 
 
 XXLX. THE MANSION IN SHADOW 331 
 
 XXX. "THE BREAK OF DAY" 339 
 
 Vlll
 
 Illustrations 
 
 \ 
 
 She assumed a slightly careless air and looked airily at 
 
 imaginary objects Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 "I thought everybody knew me," she said. "I'm Bonnie 
 
 May" 8 
 
 " Good evening," she said, as if she were addressing strangers 28 
 
 "You seem a little old for the part," she suggested ... 54 
 
 A most extraordinary ancient man stood there watching her 82 
 
 " Enter the heroine !" was the child's greeting 162 
 
 " They look as if they were quite happy and didn't care to 
 
 be anything else" 180 
 
 "I don't know what you're getting at!" he exclaimed. 
 "If you've got anything to say, why not say it and be 
 done with it?" 196 
 
 "Dear child, do try to love me, won't you?" 252 
 
 Thomason jerked his needle through a tough place and 
 
 pulled it out to arm's length 292 
 
 "Look at them!" she screamed. "Look! Look!". . . 318 
 
 She had put her arms about the trembling old lady's neck, 
 
 and for the moment they were both silent 352
 
 Bonnie May
 
 Only women understand children thoroughly, 
 but if a mere man keeps very quiet and 
 humbles himself properly, and refrains from 
 talking down to his superiors y children will 
 sometimes be good to him and let him see what 
 they think about the world. 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE INTRUSION OF AN ACTRESS 
 
 SOMEWHERE up in the gallery an usher opened a 
 window. Instantly a shaft of sunlight pierced the 
 dark interior of the theatre. It created a mote- 
 filled aerial avenue across a vast space and came 
 to an end in a balcony box. 
 
 As if it were part of a general theatrical scheme 
 it served as a search-light and brought into brilliant 
 relief the upper part of a child's body. There were 
 blue eyes made lustrous by dark lashes; hair the 
 color of goldenrod, which fell forward over one 
 shoulder and formed a kind of radiant vehicle above 
 for the support of a butterfly of blue ribbon. There 
 were delicate red lips, slightly parted. 
 
 The child leaned forward in her place and rested 
 her elbows on the box railing. Her chin nestled in 
 a little crotch, formed by her two hands. She 
 would have resembled one of Rubens's cherubs, if 
 Rubens hadn't conceived his cherubs on quite such 
 a vulgar plane. 
 
 It was so that Baron saw her during a brief in- 
 terval. Then the window up in the gallery was 
 closed, and darkness reigned in the theatre again.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 The child disappeared as Marguerite always dis- 
 appears before Faust has obtained more than a 
 seductive glimpse of her. 
 
 Baron wondered who she was. She was so close 
 to him that he could have touched her. He won- 
 dered how she could have slipped into the box with- 
 out his seeing or hearing her. The lights had been 
 on when he took his seat, and at that time he had 
 occupied the box alone. She must have crept in 
 with the cautiousness of a kitten; or perhaps she 
 had come under cover of the noise of applause. 
 
 Then he forgot her. All sorts of people were 
 likely to come into a playhouse during a matinee 
 performance, he reflected. 
 
 Dawn was merging into day in the play. The 
 purple of a make-believe sky turned to lavender, 
 and to pink. The long, horizontal streaks of color 
 faded, and in the stronger light now turned on the 
 stage a gypsy woman who seemed to have been sleep- 
 ing under a hedge came into view a young creature, 
 who patted back a yawn which distorted her pretty 
 mouth. Other persons of the drama appeared. 
 
 Baron succumbed to the hypnotic power of the 
 theatre: to the beguiling illusions of the stage, with 
 its beautiful voices; the relaxed musicians, unob- 
 trusively disinterested; the dark, indistinct rows of 
 alert forms down in the parquet. Despite what he 
 was pleased to believe was a distinguished indiffer- 
 ence in his manner, he was passionately fond of 
 plays, amazingly susceptible to their appeal.
 
 The Intrusion of an Actress 
 
 The act ended; light flooded the theatre. Baron's 
 glance again fell upon the intruder who had come to 
 share his box with him. The child really might 
 have been mistaken for an exquisite bit of architec- 
 tural ornamentation, if she had been placed in a 
 niche in the big proscenium arch. Color and pose 
 and outline all suggested the idea. But now her 
 bearing changed. As she had been absorbed in the 
 meaning of the play, now she became equally inter- 
 ested in the audience, rising in long rows from par- 
 quet to gallery. She looked almost aggressively 
 from point to point, with a lack of self-consciousness 
 that was quite remarkable. 
 
 People in the audience were noticing her, too; 
 and Baron felt suddenly resentful at being so con- 
 spicuously perched before hundreds of eyes, in 
 company with a child he knew nothing about. 
 
 She appeared to have scrutinized "the house" to 
 her satisfaction. Then she turned as if she were 
 slightly bored, and gazed with perfect frankness 
 into Baron's eyes. 
 
 "Sold out," she said, as if she were gratified. 
 
 Baron did not clearly grasp the fact that she was 
 referring to "the house." A question as to her age 
 occurred to him, but this he could not answer. She 
 must be absurdly young a baby; yet he noted that 
 she had gained command of a glance that was 
 almost maturely searching and complacent. She 
 was not the least bit agitated. 
 
 When, presently, she stood up on her chair to 
 
 3
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 obtain a general view of the audience, Baron frowned. 
 She was really a brazen little thing, he reflected, de- 
 spite her angelic prettiness. And he had a swift 
 fear that she might fall. Looking at her uneasily, 
 he realized now that she was quite tawdrily dressed. 
 
 His first impression of her had been one of beauty 
 unmarred. (He had not seen immediately that the 
 blue butterfly which rode jauntily on her crown was 
 soiled.) Now a closer inspection discovered a fan- 
 tastic little dress which might have been designed 
 for a fancy ball and it was quite old, and almost 
 shabby. Yet its gay colors, not wholly faded, har- 
 monized with some indefinable quality in the little 
 creature, and the whole garment derived a grace 
 from its wearer which really amounted to a kind of 
 elfish distinction. 
 
 She spoke again presently, and now Baron was 
 struck by the quality of her voice. It was rather 
 full for a little girl's voice not the affected pipe of 
 the average vain and pretty child. There was an 
 oddly frank, comrade-like quality in it. 
 
 "Do you know what I've got a notion to do?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 Baron withdrew farther within himself. "I 
 couldn't possibly guess," he responded. He shook 
 his head faintly, to indicate indifference. She leaned 
 so far over the edge of the box that he feared again 
 for her safety. 
 
 "I think you might possibly fall," he said. 
 "Would you mind sitting down?" 
 
 4
 
 The Intrusion of an Actress 
 
 She did as he suggested with a prompt and sweet 
 spirit of obedience. "I'm afraid I was careless," 
 she said. Then, looking over more guardedly, she 
 added: "I've got a notion to drop my programme 
 down on that old duck's bald head." 
 
 Baron looked down into the parquet. An elderly 
 gentleman, conspicuously bald-headed, sat just be- 
 neath them. Something about the shining dome 
 was almost comical. Yet he turned to the child 
 coldly. He marvelled that he had not detected a 
 pert or self-conscious expression of countenance to 
 accompany the words she had spoken. But she 
 was looking into his eyes quite earnestly. 
 
 He turned his face away from her for an instant, 
 and then, with an air of having worked out a prob- 
 lem 
 
 "I don't believe I would," he said. 
 
 "It might frighten him?" she suggested. 
 
 "Not that. He might not think it very polite." 
 
 She looked at him studiously a little, her earnest 
 eyes seeming to search his soul. Then she ven- 
 tured upon a story: 
 
 "I got on a street-car with Miss Barry to-day, 
 and we sat down on a seat with a fat woman; and, 
 believe me, the big thing nearly squeezed the giz- 
 zard out of me." 
 
 Her eyes grew wide with excitement as she 
 achieved the climax. She waited for his comment. 
 
 His eyelids quivered slightly. He decided to pay 
 no more attention to her, despite her prettiness. 
 
 5
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 What language! He stared resolutely at his pro- 
 gramme a full minute. But he could not shake off 
 the influence of her steady gaze. "I think you 
 must be exaggerating," he said finally, with mild 
 irritation. 
 
 "Not at all, really." 
 
 "Well, then," he added impatiently, "I think 
 your language is is indelicate." 
 
 "Do you, indeed?" She considered this. "Of 
 course that's a matter of opinion." She abandoned 
 the subject and seemed to be searching his face for 
 a topic -which might be more acceptable. "A good 
 many things have happened to me," she ventured 
 presently. " I came within an inch of getting caught 
 by the curtain once." 
 
 He had no idea what she meant. 
 
 She continued: "It was in a regular tank town 
 somewhere. I never pay any attention to the 
 names of the little towns." Her tone clearly con- 
 veyed the fact that she wished to get away from 
 controversial topics. She waited, plainly puzzled, 
 rather than discouraged, because she received no re- 
 sponse. "You know," she elaborated, "the audi- 
 ences in the little towns don't care much whether 
 it's something legitimate, or a tambourine show with 
 a lot of musty jokes." 
 
 Still Baron's inclination was to make no response; 
 but really there was such an amazing contrast be- 
 >tween her innocent beauty and her gamin-like 
 speech that he could not easily ignore her. 
 
 6
 
 The Intrusion of an Actress 
 
 "I'm not sure I know the difference myself," he 
 confessed. 
 
 "Well, you'd rather see 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' 
 than a lot of Honey Boys, wouldn't you?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I'd be in favor of the Honey Boys, 
 whoever they are, unless they are pretty bad." 
 
 She looked incredulous, and then disappointed. 
 For an instant she turned her back on him with 
 resolution. He observed that she squirmed herself 
 into a position of dignified uprightness in her 
 chair. 
 
 After a brief interval she turned to him with re- 
 newed hope. "Maybe you're prejudiced against 
 * Uncle Tom's Cabin'?" she ventured. 
 
 "Frankly, I am." 
 
 "You're not down on the legitimate, though?" 
 
 "I like plays if that's what you mean." 
 
 Her forehead wrinkled. "Certainly that's what 
 I mean. What did you think I meant?" 
 
 "Why, you see, I wasn't quite sure." 
 
 She searched his eyes suspiciously; then sud- 
 denly she dimpled. "Tell me are you an actor? 
 Or aren't you?" 
 
 "No assuredly not!" 
 
 She was genuinely embarrassed. She allowed her 
 face to drop into her hands, and Baron felt from 
 her gesture that she must be blushing though he 
 could see that she was not. 
 
 After a little she laughed weakly. "How child- 
 ish of me!" she exclaimed. "I really had no right 
 
 7
 
 t Bonnie May 
 
 to make such a mistake. But please tell me how 
 you happen to be up in this box?" 
 
 "The manager was good enough to direct an usher 
 to bring me here." 
 
 "Well, you know, I thought this box was always 
 given to us to the profession, I mean. I do hope 
 you'll forgive me." She seemed prepared to with- 
 draw her interest from him then, as if he no longer 
 concerned her hi any way. 
 
 But Baron was looking at her searchingly, almost 
 rudely. "Are you an an actress?" he managed to 
 ask. 
 
 Her manner changed. For the first time Baron 
 detected an affectation. She looked beyond him, 
 out toward the chattering audience, with an absurd 
 assumption of weariness. 
 
 "I thought everybody knew me," she said. "I'm 
 Bonnie May. You've heard of me, of course?" 
 and she brought her eyes back to his anxiously. 
 
 "Why, yes, of course," he assented. He was un- 
 comfortable over the untruth or over the fact that 
 he had not told it adroitly. 
 
 "I wouldn't have talked to you so freely if I 
 hadn't thought you were an actor," she explained. 
 "You know we always treat one another that way." 
 
 His manner softened. "I'm sure I understand," 
 he assured her. 
 
 He perceived that, despite the lightness of her 
 manner, she was truly ashamed of her mistake. It 
 seemed to him that she was regretfully slipping back 
 
 8
 
 "I thought everybody knew me," she said. "I'm 
 Bonnie May."
 
 The Intrusion of an Actress 
 
 into her own world, her own realm of thought. And 
 she was speedily becoming, to him, not a pert minx, 
 but just a lonely, friendly little child. 
 
 "I don't believe I know just where you are ap- 
 pearing now," he said. For the moment he could 
 not do less than appear to be interested in her. 
 
 She moved uncomfortably in her chair. "I'm 
 not doing anything just now," she said. Then her 
 eyes brightened. "The manager skipped just when 
 business was picking up. We had to close our season. 
 Such a jay town we closed in. The people wanted 
 to hold our trunks !" 
 
 "But they didn't?" 
 
 "No, we gave one more performance, so we could 
 square up." 
 
 "Why shouldn't you have kept on giving per- 
 formances?" 
 
 "Of course, you wouldn't understand. You see, 
 the manager was our Simon Legree, and we couldn't 
 do without him." 
 
 "But that last performance " 
 
 "The constable who came to hold our things said 
 he'd take the part of Simon Legree just once, so we 
 could pay our bills and get out of town. He said 
 there was sure to be a crowd if it was known that 
 he' would be one of the actors. He said he'd always 
 wanted to be an actor, but that his parents thought 
 it would be sinful for him to act." 
 
 "But did he know the part?" 
 
 "He didn't have to. Even in the profession 
 
 9
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 there are a lot of us who don't know our parts half 
 the time. You may have noticed. The constable 
 said he could 'pop a whip' and we told him that 
 would do, if he would remember to say 'You black 
 rascal ! ' every little while. That would be to Uncle 
 Tom, you know. Our Uncle Tom did both parts. 
 That happens lots of tunes. With any play, I mean. 
 He'd say: 'Yo' say Ah b'longs to you, Massa Le- 
 gree ? Oh, no, Massa Legree, Ah don' b'long to you. 
 Yo' may own mah body, but yo' don' own mah 
 soul.' Saying both parts, you know." 
 
 When Baron laughed at this she joined in the 
 merriment and even promoted it. "The constable 
 enjoyed it," she said. "He said he'd like to leave 
 town with us and play the part all the time." 
 
 "He'd got over thinking it was sinful for him to 
 act?" 
 
 "Yes, but the rest of us thought his first hunch 
 was right. Besides, there were other difficulties. 
 You see, our Topsy was the manager's wife, and she 
 wouldn't play any more until she found her hus- 
 band. She wasn't much of an artist. Anyway, we 
 had to quit." 
 
 Baron sent a wandering glance over the theatre; 
 but he was thinking of neither audience nor play. 
 He wondered whose child this could be, and by what 
 chance a little creature so alert and so friendly in 
 her outlook upon life should be deeply submerged in 
 the make-believe of men, when she should have 
 been reading only the primer of real things. 
 
 10
 
 The Intrusion of an Actress 
 
 Then by chance his eyes fell upon Thornburg, the 
 manager, who stood just inside the foyer, engaged 
 in what was seemingly an intense conversation with 
 a tall, decidedly striking-looking woman. And even 
 as his eyes rested upon these two they looked up at 
 him as if he were the subject of their conversation. 
 Or were they not, more probably, discussing the 
 child who sat near him? 
 
 He had no time to pursue his reflections. The 
 orchestra brought to its climax the long overture 
 which it had been playing with almost grotesque in- 
 adequacy, and the curtain went up on the next act. 
 
 There was the sudden diminuendo of voices 
 throughout the house, and the stealthy disturbance 
 of an individual here and there feeling his way to 
 his seat. Then again Baron was lost in the progress 
 of the play. 
 
 The child shrank into herself again and became 
 once more an absorbed, unobtruding little creature. 
 
 Baron sat in rapt silence for half an hour; and 
 then the master dramatist, Fate, intervened, and 
 proceeded to make him a figure in one of those real 
 dramas before which all make-believe fades into in- 
 significance. 
 
 At the left of the stage a flame went leaping up 
 along the inner edge of one of the wings, and took 
 swift hold of a cloud of filmy fabric overhead. The 
 theatre was afire ! 
 
 Baron saw and was incredulous. The child near 
 him remained undisturbed. The persons on the 
 
 ii
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 stage continued their work with an evenness which, 
 to Baron, became suddenly a deadly monotony. 
 But back in those realms in the theatre which were 
 all but hidden from him he saw the swift movements 
 of men who were confronted with an unwonted, a 
 fearful task. 
 
 He turned to the child with sudden purpose, with 
 a manner that was harsh and peremptory. " Come ! " 
 he said. His voice was subdued yet vibrant. 
 
 The child noted the vibration and quickly caught 
 the expression of command in his eyes. She put 
 out a hand toward him obediently, but he excitedly 
 ignored that. He gathered her into his arms and dis- 
 appeared from the box. In an instant he was carry- 
 ing her cautiously yet swiftly down a narrow stairway. 
 
 He skirted the wall of the theatre and passed the 
 manager in the foyer. He paused long enough to 
 whisper a few startling words, and then hurried 
 toward the entrance. His ears were fortified for 
 the screams of women; but he heard only the dull 
 sound of the asbestos curtain being lowered as he 
 passed out to the street. He did not hesitate until 
 he had turned a corner and was well out of the way 
 of a possible panic-stricken crowd. 
 
 He put the child down on the sidewalk; she was 
 really a good deal above the weight of those children 
 who are usually carried. A few steps and they had 
 reached a confectioner's shop, in which women and 
 children were sitting at little tables, oblivious to all 
 menaces, far or near. 
 
 12
 
 The Intrusion of an Actress 
 
 "Let's go in here," he said, trying to assume a 
 matter-of-fact tone. The child looked searchingly 
 into his eyes. "What was it?" she asked. 
 
 "What was what?" 
 
 "Don't!" she exclaimed with impatience. ' And 
 then she looked up and down the street, where the 
 constant stream of strangers passed. She felt for- 
 lorn, alone. She turned again to Baron as to a final 
 refuge. "I behaved myself," she said. "I didn't 
 wait to ask what was the matter I didn't say a 
 word. But I knew something had happened. I 
 could hear your heart beating. I knew it was some- 
 thing terrible. But you could tell me now!" 
 
 Baron guided her to a chair and released her 
 with a feeling of relief. His impulse was to take his 
 departure and let the incident end as it might. But 
 that wouldn't do, certainly ! What would the con- 
 fectioner do with the child? Besides, there was 
 something about her 
 
 Through the fitful symphony of the city's noises 
 the clang of an alarm-bell sounded. 
 
 The child lifted her head; her eyes became wide 
 with excitement. "There's a fire !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes," admitted Baron. "It's in the theatre. I 
 thought we ought to come out, though of course it 
 may not amount to anything. We'll wait here un- 
 til the excitement is over, and then we'll go out 
 and find your " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence. He realized that 
 he did not know how. Instead he turned to a clerk
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 and ordered something he scarcely knew what. 
 He was listening to those noises out in the street; 
 he was noting, soon with great relief, that they were 
 abating rapidly. Clearly there had been no real 
 danger, after all. 
 
 He led his charge from the place presently. He 
 noticed that she had not touched a little dish of 
 something the clerk had set before her. 
 
 On the street again he was surprised to perceive 
 that the normal activities of the neighborhood had 
 been resumed. The audience in the theatre had 
 been dismissed upon some pretext of a nature not 
 at all terrifying. The fire had been extinguished. 
 The lobby was deserted. No one was searching or 
 waiting for a little girl, or seemed to be remotely 
 interested in one. 
 
 "Strange !" reflected Baron. He was wholly out- 
 side the realm of make-believe now. He was amid 
 painfully prosaic surroundings. 
 
 He turned to his companion. "Er your name 
 has escaped me for the minute " 
 
 "Bonnie May." 
 
 "Of course. Well, Bonnie May, I think I'll have 
 to take you home." 
 
 "Whose home yours?" she asked. 
 
 "Good gracious, no ! To your own !" 
 
 She peered into the lobby searchingly, the light 
 slowly fading from her eyes. 
 
 "But I haven't any home," she said.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 A MOMENTOUS DECISION 
 
 IT was all very well for a young man of an almost 
 painfully circumspect type to rescue a youthful 
 female from danger. It was a different matter, 
 however, when he found himself walking along a 
 crowded thoroughfare, leading a waif in a fantastic 
 and almost shabby dress, and bringing upon him- 
 self the curious, if not the suspicious, glances of 
 passers-by. 
 
 This fact struck Baron forcibly and unpleasantly. 
 
 "Come, let's get inside somewhere," he said to 
 his companion. He spoke almost abjectly, as if he 
 had been a soldier seeking a hiding-place behind a 
 wall. "This place will do!" He had espied a 
 haven in the form of a restaurant, deserted by all 
 save two or three young women wearing waitresses' 
 aprons and caps. 
 
 Bonnie May looked at him inquiringly, almost 
 piteously. This movement was a mere strategy, 
 , she realized. It was not a time for eating. But 
 the ready speech of hah" an hour ago had deserted 
 her, and she entered the restaurant, when Baron 
 opened the door for her, without saying a word. 
 
 IS
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Indeed she stood so forlornly and dependently that 
 her companion realized anew that he had somehow 
 committed an enormous blunder. 
 
 "Sit down somewhere," he said almost impa- 
 tiently; and when he noted the childish effort with 
 which she wriggled into her chair, and tried hero- 
 ically to assume a debonair manner, a feeling deeper 
 than mere irritation seized him. 
 
 "Darn the luck!" he ruminated; "she's so little, 
 and so lovely what's a fellow to do in such a case, 
 anyway?" 
 
 "It doesn't seem quite a suitable time to be eat- 
 ing, does it?" she observed politely. The words 
 were accompanied by a gently deprecatory smile 
 which amazed Baron by a quality of odd sophisti- 
 cation and practised self-restraint. 
 
 "We needn't eat anything," he said, more cor- 
 dially. "I think we ought to order something to 
 drink. You see, I have to decide what to do." 
 
 She adjusted certain articles on the table with 
 feminine nicety. "That's very good of you, I'm 
 sure," she said. 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 "I mean your taking an interest in me." 
 
 "An interest in you ! What else can I do?" 
 
 She propped her face up in the palms of her 
 hands and looked across the table at him medita- 
 tively. 
 
 "Don't!" he exclaimed. "I'm not used to hav- 
 ing a cherub on my hands. It's my own predica- 
 
 16
 
 A Momentous Decision 
 
 ment I'm thinking about, not yours. Do you drink 
 milk?" 
 
 A waitress had approached and was standing be- 
 hind them. 
 
 She resented his brusque manner, now that the 
 waitress was there to hear. "I have done such a 
 thing," she said. " As a rule I'm permitted to choose 
 for myself." 
 
 "Well, by all means do, then." 
 
 She turned to the waitress and lowered her voice 
 by a full tone. "A cup of chocolate, please; not 
 too thick; and some wafers." She faced Baron 
 again with a ready change of countenance and voice, 
 and touched upon some trivial subject which he 
 recognized as a formal means of dispelling any im- 
 pression that there was something unusual in their 
 relationship or appearance. 
 
 "Now, Bonnie May," he began, when they were 
 alone, "I want you to help me as far as you can. 
 Who took you to the theatre this afternoon ? " 
 
 "I went with Miss Barry." 
 
 " Good. Who is Miss Barry ? " 
 
 "Miss Florence Barry. You don't mean to say 
 you don't know who she is?" 
 
 "I never heard of her." 
 
 "She's an actress. She's very well known, too." 
 
 "Very well. How did she happen to take you? 
 How did you happen to be with her?" 
 
 "I've always been with her. She's all I've 
 got." 
 
 17
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "We're getting along nicely. You're related to 
 her, I suppose?" 
 
 "I couldn't say. It's possible." 
 
 Baron frowned. "Your mother is dead?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She gazed at him with a gathering cloud in her 
 eyes a look that was eloquent of secret sorrow 
 and beseechment. But she made no response in 
 words. 
 
 Baron felt the pangs of swift remorse. "I sup- 
 pose Miss Barry will have to do," he said, with an 
 attempt at kindly brusqueness. Then "Can you 
 tell me her address?" 
 
 "I don't suppose she has any. We've been doing 
 one-night stands quite a long time." 
 
 "But she must belong some place and you, too. 
 Where have you been stopping?" 
 
 "We only got here yesterday. I see you don't 
 quite understand. We've just been moving from 
 place to place all the time." 
 
 Baron pondered. "Have you always lived in 
 hotels, in one town or another?" he finally asked. 
 
 "Hotels and theatres and rooming-houses, and 
 trains and even wagons and carriages. Every kind 
 of place." 
 
 "I see. Well, where did you stop last night?" 
 
 "We had a room somewhere. I really couldn't 
 tell you where. It was the meanest kind of a place 
 empty and cold quite a distance from the 
 theatre. It was in a long row of houses, built one 
 
 18
 
 A Momentous Decision 
 
 up against another, miles and miles long, with 
 cheap, little old stores or shops down-stairs, and 
 sometimes rooms above that you could rent. We 
 were just getting ready to look for an engagement, 
 you know, and we were broke. We couldn't afford 
 to go to a nice place." 
 
 The fine show of bravery was beginning to pass. 
 She felt that she was being questioned unsym- 
 pathetically. 
 
 Baron, too, realized that his questions must seem 
 to lack friendliness. 
 
 The waiter brought chocolate and coffee, and 
 Baron dropped sugar into his cup, thoughtfully 
 watching the little bubbles that arose. Then, 
 much to Bonnie May's surprise, and not a little to 
 her relief, he laughed softly. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked eagerly/ 
 
 "Oh, nothing." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," was Bonnie 
 May's chilling rejoinder. She began to sip her 
 chocolate with impressive elegance. 
 
 "Why not?" reflected Baron. He was drawing 
 a picture of Bonnie May in his mother's presence 
 his mother, who was the most punctilious of all 
 elderly ladies, and whose genuine goodness of heart 
 was usually quite concealed by the studied way in 
 which she adhered to the unbending social codes 
 that must govern a Baron or, rather, a Boone. 
 She was a Boone of the Virginia Boones when 
 she married Baron's father; a beauty who had 
 
 19
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 been wealthy, despite the disintegration of the 
 Boone fortunes when the Civil War freed the 
 slaves. 
 
 He pictured Bonnie May in the dim old mansion 
 that was his home in that aged house that never 
 knew the voices of children; in which even adults 
 seemed always to be speaking in low, measured 
 tones. 
 
 "The governess isn't as bad as she would like 
 to appear," was his irreverent meditation, which 
 still related to his mother. "And Flora would take 
 my part. As for the governor " 
 
 He turned to the child with decision. He re- 
 alized, finally, that the question of treating her 
 just as if she were any other lost child was not to 
 be considered. 
 
 "Bonnie May," he said, "I think you'd better 
 go [home with me for the time being. We can 
 put something in the paper, you know, and I'll 
 find out if Miss Barry has left any word with the 
 police. But that can't be done in a minute, and of 
 course we can't sit here all afternoon. Come, let's 
 go home." 
 
 The waitress came forward to assist when she 
 saw Bonnie May trying to climb down from her 
 chair without loss of dignity. 
 
 "It was very nice," said the child, addressing 
 the waitress. She was smiling angelically. "I 
 think we're ready," she added, turning toward 
 Baron. 
 
 20
 
 A Momentous Decision 
 
 She tried to catch step with him as they moved 
 toward the door. 
 
 And Baron could not possibly have known that 
 at that very moment his mother and his sister 
 Flora were sitting in an upper room of the mansion, 
 brooding upon the evil days that had fallen upon 
 the family fortunes. 
 
 Theirs was a very stately and admirable home 
 viewed from within. But it was practically all 
 that the family possessed, and the neighborhood 
 well, the neighborhood had wholly lost eligibility 
 as a place for residences long ago. 
 
 All their friends, who had formerly been their 
 neighbors, had moved away, one after another, 
 when commerce had descended upon the street, 
 with its grime and smoke, and only the Barons re- 
 mained. Certainly cities grow without any regard 
 at all for the dignity of old mansions or old families. 
 
 And while the ground on which the mansion 
 stood had increased in value until it was worth a 
 considerable fortune, it was a carefully guarded 
 family secret that the actual supply of funds in the 
 family treasury had dwindled down to next to 
 nothing. 
 
 One permanent investment brought Mrs. Baron 
 a few hundreds annually, and Mr. Baron drew 
 a modest salary from a position with the city, 
 which he had held many years without complaint 
 or lapses. But the fortune that used to be theirs 
 
 21
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 had vanished mysteriously in trips to Europe and 
 in the keeping up of those social obligations which 
 they could not disregard. The formal social ac- 
 tivities of the mansion had become wholly things 
 of the past, and within the past year or two the 
 visits of old friends, now living out in commodious 
 new residential districts, had become few and far 
 between. Really it seemed that the Barons had 
 been forgotten. 
 
 Flora, looking suddenly into her mother's brood- 
 ing, fine old eyes, and quite accurately reading the 
 thought that was beyond them, sighed and arose. 
 
 "It's the neighborhood," she said quite am- 
 biguously, it would have seemed, since not a word 
 had passed between them for nearly half an hour. 
 
 But Mrs. Baron responded: "Do you think so?" 
 And her face stiffened with new resolve not to re- 
 pine, even if the currents of life had drawn away 
 from them and left them desolate. 
 
 Then an automobile drew up in front of the 
 mansion and Flora's face brightened. "They've 
 come!" she said. "I won't be gone long, mother," 
 and she hurried away to her room. 
 
 A moment later Mrs. Baron heard her going 
 down the stairs and closing the front door. 
 
 She stood at the window and watched Flora get 
 into the shining electric coupe of the McKelvey 
 girls. She caught a glimpse of the McKelvey 
 girls' animated faces, and then the elegant little 
 vehicle moved away. 
 
 22
 
 A Momentous Decision 
 
 Still she stood at the window. Her face was 
 rather proud and defiant. And then after a time 
 it became, suddenly, quite blank. 
 
 There was Victor coming up the stone steps into 
 the yard, and he was leading a waif by the hand. 
 Only the word "waif" did not occur to Mrs. 
 Baron. 
 
 "Well!" she exclaimed, her body rigid, her eyes 
 staring out from beneath pugnacious brows. "Vic- 
 tor and an impossible little female !"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 MRS. BARON DECIDES 
 
 As Baron felt for his key he stood an instant and 
 surveyed the other side of the street, up and down 
 the block. A frown gathered on his forehead. 
 
 Bonnie May, keyed to a very high pitch, noted 
 that frowning survey of the line of buildings across 
 the way. "Something wrong?" she asked. 
 
 "No, certainly not," responded Baron; but to 
 himself he was admitting that there was some- 
 thing very wrong indeed. It was the neighbor- 
 hood. This was his conclusion, just as it had been 
 Flora's. 
 
 He had become conscious of the frowning, grimy 
 fronts; the windows which were like eyes turning 
 baleful glances upon the thoroughfare. The grass- 
 plots, the flower-beds, the suitable carpets spread 
 for the feet of spring what had become of them? 
 
 A dissolute-appearing old woman was scrubbing 
 the ancient stone steps in one place across the way. 
 She suggested better days just as obviously as did 
 the stones, worn away by generations of feet. And 
 a little farther along there were glaring plate- 
 glass fronts bearing gilt legends which fairly 
 shrieked those commercial words which ought to 
 
 24
 
 Mrs. Baron Decides 
 
 have been whispered from side doors, Baron 
 thought Shoes, and Cloaks, and Hats. 
 
 What sort of a vicinity was this in which to 
 have a home ? 
 
 Baron wondered why the question had not oc- 
 curred to him before. He did not realize that he 
 was viewing the street now for the first time through 
 the eyes of a child who owed the neighborhood no 
 sort of sentimental loyalty. 
 
 "Here we are!" he exclaimed as he produced his 
 key; but his tone was by no means as cheerful as he 
 tried to make it. 
 
 Bonnie May hung back an instant, as a butterfly 
 might pause at the entrance of a dark wood. She 
 glanced into the dark vestibule before her inquir- 
 ingly. Her eyebrows were critically elevated. 
 
 "Is it a a rooming-house?" she faltered. 
 
 "Nonsense! It's always been called a mansion. 
 It's a charming old place, too I assure you! 
 Come, we ought not to stand here." 
 
 He was irritated. More so than he had been 
 before when his companion's look or word had 
 served as a reminder that he was doing an ex- 
 traordinary, if not a foolish, thing. He would not 
 have admitted it, but he was nervous, too. His 
 mother hadn't been at all amiable of late. There 
 wasn't any telling what she would do when he 
 said to her, in effect: "Here's a lost child. I don't 
 know anything at all about her, but I expect you 
 to help her." 
 
 35
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Suppose she should decide to express her frank 
 opinion of waifs, and of people who brought them 
 home? 
 
 He fumbled a little as he unlocked the door. 
 His heart was fairly pounding. 
 
 "There you are!" he exclaimed. His voice was 
 as gayly hospitable as he could make it, but his 
 secret thought was: "If she weren't so so 
 Oh, darn it, if she were like any other child I'd 
 shut her out this' minute and let that be the end 
 of it." 
 
 The hall was shadowy; yet even in the dim light 
 Baron perceived that the marble balustrade of the 
 stairway was strangely cold and unattractive and 
 he had always considered this one of the fine things 
 about the house. So, too, was the drawing-room 
 gloomy almost to darkness. The blinds were down 
 as always, save on special occasions. And Baron 
 realized that the family had long ago ceased to 
 care about looking out upon the street, or to per- 
 mit the street to get a glimpse of the life within. 
 Indeed, he realized with a bit of a shock that the 
 home life had been almost entirely removed to the 
 upper floor as if the premises were being sub- 
 merged by a flood. 
 
 He lifted one of the blinds. - " Sit down," he said. 
 "I'll find mother." 
 
 "What do you use this room for?" inquired 
 Bonnie May. She was slightly pale. She seemed 
 to be fortifying herself for weird developments. 
 
 26
 
 Mrs. Baron Decides 
 
 "I hardly know," Baron confessed. "I think 
 we don't use it very much at all." 
 
 "You might think from the properties that it 
 was a rooming-house." She had wriggled into a 
 chair that was too high for her. Her curiosity was 
 unconcealed. Baron could see by the look in her 
 eyes that she had not meant her comment to be 
 derisive, but only a statement of fact. 
 
 "Possibly you haven't seen many quite old, 
 thoroughly established homes," he suggested. The 
 remark wasn't meant at all as a rebuke. It repre- 
 sented the attitude of mind with which Baron had 
 always been familiar. 
 
 "Anyway," she persisted, "it wouldn't do for 
 an up-to-date interior. It might do for an Ibsen 
 play." 
 
 Baron, about to leave the room to find his 
 mother, turned sharply. "What in the world do 
 you know about Ibsen plays?" he asked sharply. 
 "Besides, you're not in a theatre! If you'll excuse 
 me a minute " 
 
 There were footsteps on the stairway, and Baron's 
 countenance underwent a swift change. He with- 
 drew a little way into the room, so that he stood 
 close to Bonnie May. He was trying to look con- 
 ciliatory when his mother appeared in the door- 
 way; but guilt was really the expression that was 
 stamped on his face. 
 
 It was a very austere-looking old lady who 
 looked into the room. "Good evening," she said, 
 
 27
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 as if she were addressing strangers. Still, Baron 
 detected a wryly humorous smile on her lips. She 
 stood quite still, critically inspecting her son ^as 
 well as his companion. 
 
 Baron was glad that Bonnie May sprang to her 
 feet instantly with comprehension and respect. 
 "This is my mother, Mrs. Baron," he said to the 
 child; and to the quizzical old lady, who regarded 
 him with a steady question, he added foolishly, 
 "this is a little girl I have brought home." 
 
 "So I should have surmised." Her tone was 
 hardening. Her attitude was fearfully unyielding. 
 It seemed to Baron that her gray hair, which rose 
 high and free from her forehead, had never im- 
 parted so much severity to her features before, and 
 that her black eyes had never seemed so imperious. 
 
 But Bonnie May was advancing very prettily. 
 "How do you do, Mrs. Baron?" she inquired. 
 She was smiling almost radiantly. "I do hope I 
 don't intrude," she added. 
 
 Mrs. Baron looked down at her with frank amaze- 
 ment. For the moment she forgot the presence of 
 her son. She took the child's outstretched hand. 
 
 Perhaps the touch of a child's fingers to a woman 
 who has had children but who has them no longer 
 is magical. Perhaps Bonnie May was quite as ex- 
 traordinary as Victor Baron had thought her. At 
 any rate, Mrs. Baron's face suddenly softened. 
 She drew the child into the protection of her arm 
 and held her close, looking at her son. 
 
 28
 
 " Good evening," she said, as if she were addressing strangers.
 
 Mrs. Baron Decides 
 
 "Who in the world is she?" she asked, and 
 Baron saw that her eyes were touched with a light 
 which was quite unfamiliar to him. 
 
 "I was going to tell you," he faltered, and then 
 he remembered that there was practically nothing 
 he could tell. He saved time by suggesting: "Per- 
 haps she could go up-stairs a minute, while I talk 
 to you alone?" 
 
 "Would it be wrong for me to hear?" This was 
 from the child. "You know I might throw a little 
 light on the subject myself." 
 
 Mrs. Baron blushed rosily and placed her hand 
 over her mouth, wrenching a swift smile therefrom. 
 She had heard of precocious children. She disap- 
 proved of them. Neither of her own children had 
 been in the least precocious. "Who ever heard 
 anything like that?" she demanded of her son in 
 frank amazement. 
 
 "There are some things I ought to say to my 
 mother alone," declared Baron. He placed a per- 
 suasive hand on the child's shoulder. "Afterward 
 you can talk the matter over together." 
 
 Mrs. Baron's doubts were returning. "I don't 
 see why we should make any mysteries," she said. 
 She looked at the child again, and again all her 
 defenses were laid low. "I suppose she might go 
 up-stairs to my sitting-room, if there's anything 
 to say. Tell me, child," and she bent quite gra- 
 ciously over the small guest, "what is your name?" 
 
 "I am Bonnie May," was the response. The 
 
 29
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 child was inordinately proud of her name, but she 
 did not wish to be vainglorious now. She lowered 
 her eyes with an obviously theatrical effect, assum- 
 ing a nice modesty. 
 
 Mrs. Baron observed sharply, and nodded her 
 head. 
 
 "That's a queer name for a human being," was 
 her comment. She looked at her son as if she sud- 
 denly had a bad taste in her mouth. "It sounds 
 like a doll-baby's name." 
 
 The child was shocked by the unfriendliness 
 the rudeness of this. Mrs. Baron followed up 
 her words with more disparagement in the way of 
 a steady, disapproving look. Precocious children 
 ought to be snubbed, she thought. 
 
 The good lady would not have offended one of 
 her own age without a better reason; but so many 
 good people do not greatly mind offending a child. 
 
 "You know," said Bonnie May, "I really didn't 
 have anything to do with picking out my own 
 name. Somebody else did it for me. And maybe 
 they decided on it because they thought it would 
 look good on the four-sheets." 
 
 "On the " 
 
 But Baron swiftly interposed. 
 
 "We can go into matters of that sort some other 
 time," he said. "I think it would be better for 
 you to leave mother and me alone for a minute 
 just now." 
 
 Bonnie May went out of the room in response 
 
 30
 
 Mrs. Baron Decides 
 
 to Baron's gesture. "I'll show you the way," he 
 said, and as he began to guide her up the stairs 
 she turned toward him, glancing cautiously over his 
 shoulder to the room they had just quitted. 
 
 "Believe me," she whispered, "that's the first 
 time I've had stage fright in years." She mounted 
 three or four steps and then paused again. "You 
 know," she confided, turning again, "she makes 
 you think of a kind of honest sister to Lady Mac- 
 beth." 
 
 Baron stopped short, his hand on the balustrade. 
 "Bonnie May," he demanded, "will you tell me 
 how old you are?" 
 
 He had a sudden fear that she was one of those 
 pitiable creatures whose minds grow old but whose 
 bodies remain the same from year to year. 
 
 "I don't know," she replied, instantly troubled. 
 "Miss Barry never would tell me." 
 
 "Well, how far back can you remember?" 
 
 "Oh, quite a long time. I know I had a real 
 speaking part as long as four seasons ago. I've 
 been doing little Eva off and on over two years." 
 
 He was greatly relieved. "It seems to me," he 
 said severely, "that you know about plays which 
 a little girl ought not to know anything about." 
 
 " Oh ! Well, I was with Miss Barry in lots of plays 
 that I didn't have any part in, unless it might be 
 to help out with the populace, or something like 
 that. And we did stock work for a while, with a 
 new play every week."
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Somehow this speech had the effect of restoring 
 her to favor with Baron. Her offenses were clearly 
 unconscious, unintended, while her alertness, her 
 discernment, were very genuine and native. What 
 a real human being she was, after all, despite her 
 training in the unrealities of life ! And how quick 
 she was to see when she had offended, and how 
 ready with contrition and apology! Surely that 
 was the sort of thing that made for good breeding 
 even from the standpoint of a Baron or a Boone ! 
 
 They traversed the upper hall until they reached 
 an immense front room which was filled with the 
 mellow sunlight of the late afternoon, and which 
 was invitingly informal and untidy in all its aspects. 
 It was one of those rooms which seem alive, because 
 of many things which speak eloquently of recent 
 occupation and of the certainty of their being oc- 
 cupied immediately again. 
 
 A square piano, pearl inlaid and venerable, caught 
 Bonnie May's eyes. 
 
 "Oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed. She stood a 
 moment, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "Yes," 
 she added musingly, "I can actually see them." 
 
 "See whom?" Baron demanded, slightly im- 
 patient. 
 
 "The nice, sweet girls, wearing crinoline, and 
 dancing with their arms around one another's 
 waists, and one of them sitting at the piano play- 
 ing, and looking over her shoulder at the others. 
 There are tender smiles on their lips, and their 
 
 32
 
 Mrs. Baron Decides 
 
 eyes are shining like anything. They are so dear 
 and happy ! " 
 
 Baron frowned. Why should the child associate 
 the house, his home, only with things so remote 
 with respect to tune and place? It was a jealously 
 guarded family secret that life was relentlessly 
 passing on, leaving them stranded in old ways. 
 But was a child a waif picked up in pity, or in a 
 spirit of adventure to wrest the secret from among 
 hidden things and flaunt it in his face? 
 
 She had gone into the big bay window and was 
 standing with one hand on the long willow seat, 
 covered with pale-hued cushions. For the moment 
 she was looking down upon the bit of grass-plot 
 below. 
 
 "Make yourself at home," invited Baron. "I 
 won't be long." 
 
 He went back to his mother. He wished she 
 might have heard what the child had said about 
 the girls who were dancing, far away in the past 
 
 "Well, who is she?" was Mrs. Baron's abrupt, 
 matter-of-fact question. 
 
 "I don't know. That's the plain truth. I'm 
 thinking more about what she is or what she seems 
 to be." 
 
 He described the incident in the theatre, and 
 explained how he had been in fear of a panic. "I 
 felt obliged to carry her out," he concluded rather 
 lamely. 
 
 "I quite see that. But that didn't make you 
 
 33
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 responsible for her in any way," Mrs. Baron re- 
 minded him. 
 
 "Well now, governess, do be friendly. I'm not 
 responsible for her I know that. But you see, 
 she appears to be alone in the world, except for a 
 Miss Barry, an actress. I couldn't find her. Of 
 course she'll be located to-morrow. That's all 
 there is to it. And let's not be so awfully particular. 
 There can't be any harm in having the little thing 
 in the house overnight. Honestly, don't you think 
 she is wonderful ? " 
 
 Mrs. Baron was diligently nursing her wrath. 
 "That isn't the question," she argued. "I dare 
 say a good many unidentified children are wonder- 
 ful. But that would scarcely justify us in turning 
 our house into an orphan asylum." 
 
 "Oh! An orphan asylum!" echoed Baron al- 
 most despairingly. "Look here, mother, it was 
 just by chance that I ran across the little thing, 
 and under the circumstances what was I going to 
 do with her?" 
 
 "There were the police, at least." 
 
 "Yes, I thought of that." 
 
 He went to the window and stood with his back 
 to her. For a full minute there was silence in the 
 room, and then Baron spoke. He did not turn 
 around. 
 
 "Yes, there were the police," he repeated, "but 
 I couldn't help remembering that there was also 
 I and we. I had an idea we could do a good deal 
 
 34
 
 Mrs. Baron Decides 
 
 better than the police, in a case like this. I don't 
 understand how women feel, mother, but I can't 
 help remembering that every little girl is going to 
 be a woman some day. And I've no doubt that the 
 kind of woman she is going to be will be governed 
 a good deal by seemingly trivial events. I don't 
 see why it isn't likely that Bonnie May's whole 
 future may depend upon the way things fall out 
 for her now, when she's really helpless and alone 
 for the first time in her life. I think it's likely she'll 
 remember to the end of her days that people were 
 kind to her or that they weren't. We've nothing 
 to be afraid of at the hands of a little bit of a girl. 
 At the most, we'll have to give her a bed for the 
 night and a bite to eat and just a little friendliness. 
 It's she who must be afraid of us! afraid that 
 we'll be thoughtless, or snobbish, and refuse to give 
 her the comfort she needs, now that she's in 
 trouble." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "A speech!" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, and Baron 
 could not fail to note the irony in her voice. She 
 added, in the same tone: "The haughty mother 
 yields to the impassioned plea of her noble son!" 
 
 Baron turned and observed that she was smiling 
 rather maliciously. 
 
 "You'd better go up and look after her," she; 
 added. _" Flora will be home before long.". 
 
 35
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 A CRISIS 
 
 AT five o'clock, during a brief lull in the usual 
 noises on the avenue, there was a faint and aris- 
 tocratic murmur of machinery in front of the man- 
 sion. The McKelvey girls' motor-car drew up at 
 the curb, and Miss Flora Baron alighted. 
 
 The Misses McKelvey had come for her early in 
 the afternoon and had driven her out to their sub- 
 urban home, where she was always treated almost 
 like one of the family. 
 
 She was the sort of girl that people love un- 
 questioningly: gentle, low-voiced, seemingly happy, 
 grateful, gracious. Besides, there was a social kin- 
 ship between the two families. Mrs. McKelvey 
 had been a Miss Van Sant before her marriage, 
 and the Van Sants and the Boones had been neigh- 
 bors for a century or more. 
 
 "Good-by, Flora," called the McKelvey girls 
 almost in one voice, as their guest hurried toward 
 her gate. Their cheerful faces were framed by the 
 open door of their shining coupe". And Flora looked 
 back over her shoulder and responded gayly, and 
 then hurried up into the vestibule of the mansion. 
 
 She carried an armful of roses which the McKel- 
 
 36
 
 A Crisis 
 
 veys had insisted upon her bringing home: roses 
 with long stems, from which many of the green, 
 wax-like leaves had not been removed. 
 
 When she entered the hall she paused and sighed. 
 Now that her friends could not see her any longer, 
 she abandoned a certain gladsome bearing. It was 
 so lovely out at the McKelveys', and it was so so 
 different, here at home. She had the feeling one 
 might have upon entering a dungeon. 
 
 The fingers of her right hand closed upon the 
 dull-green-and-silver tailored skirt she was wearing, 
 and one foot was already planted on the first step 
 of the stairway. She meant to offer the roses to 
 her mother, who would be in the sitting-room up- 
 stairs. 
 
 But before she had mounted to the second step 
 she heard her brother Victor's voice in the dining- 
 room, and she knew by his manner of speaking that 
 he was at the telephone. 
 
 This circumstance in itself was not remarkable, 
 but he was asking for police headquarters ! 
 
 Visions of a burglary passed before her mind, 
 and she wondered whimsically what anybody could 
 find in the house worth stealing. Her brother's 
 next words reached her clearly: 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't say just how old she is. Say 
 about ten. Somebody must have reported that 
 she is lost. . . . Well, that certainly seems 
 strange. ..." 
 
 Flora changed her mind about going up-stairs 
 
 37
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 immediately. Instead, she turned toward the 
 dining-room. Victor was continuing his message: 
 "Are you sure such a report hasn't been made at 
 one of the substations?" And after a brief inter- 
 val there was the sound of the receiver being hung 
 up. 
 
 However, when Flora entered the dining-room 
 her brother was speaking at the telephone again. 
 More about a little girl. "Mr. Thornburg's office? 
 Mr. Thornburg? This is Baron speaking. Say 
 has anybody spoken to you about losing a little 
 girl this afternoon?" 
 
 Flora perceived that he was deeply concerned; 
 his attitude was even strikingly purposeful and 
 .Victor usually appeared to have no definite pur- 
 poses at all. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, clearly in answer to words 
 from the other end of the wire, "I brought her 
 home with me. I didn't know what else to do. I 
 thought somebody might have inquired at the 
 theatre about her. If they do, you'll let me know 
 right away, won't you? She'll probably be with 
 us here until she's claimed." 
 
 He hung up the receiver. His eyes were un- 
 usually bright. 
 
 "Here? Who?" demanded Flora. 
 
 Baron beamed upon her. "Flora!" he cried. 
 "I'm glad you've come. Something has hap- 
 pened!" 
 
 "Who's here?" 
 
 38
 
 A Crisis 
 
 "The renowned actress, Bonnie May." 
 
 "Please tell me!" she begged, as if he had made 
 no response at all. 
 
 "A little lost girl." Then Baron briefly explained. 
 
 Miss Baron's eyes fairly danced. "What an ad- 
 venture!" She added presently: "Is she nice?" 
 
 "Nice? That's a woman's first question every 
 time, isn't it?" Baron reflected. "I suppose so. 
 I know she's pretty the very prettiest thing!" 
 
 "And that's a man's first consideration, of course. 
 What did mother say?" 
 
 "Mother is resigned." They moved toward 
 the stairway. "Try to persuade mother that a 
 child doesn't count," Baron urged. "I'm sure 
 Mrs. Grundy never had any children. None like 
 Bonnie May, anyway. When you've once seen 
 her " 
 
 They were ascending the stairway eagerly, whis- 
 pering. A dozen years at least seemed to have 
 slipped from their shoulders. They entered Mrs. 
 Baron's sitting-room quite eagerly. 
 
 Mrs. Baron and Bonnie May were sitting quite 
 close together, the guest in a low chair that was 
 Flora's. Mrs. Baron was maintaining the role of 
 indulgent but overriden oracle; Bonnie May was 
 amiably inclined to make allowances. They were 
 conversing in a rather sedate fashion. 
 
 "My sister, Flora, Bonnie May," said Baron. 
 
 The child came forward eagerly. "How lovely !" 
 she exclaimed, extending her hand. 
 
 39
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Flora regarded the child with smiling eyes. "Oh ! 
 you mean the roses," she said. "Yes, they are." 
 But she did not look at the flowers on her arm. 
 She pushed a pennon-like fragment of veil away 
 from her face and smiled quietly at the child. 
 
 "I didn't mean them," explained Bonnie May. 
 "I meant it was lovely that you should be that 
 I'm to have Do excuse me, I mean that you 
 are lovely!" 
 
 Only an instant longer Miss Baron remained as 
 if happily spellbound. A breath that was fragrant 
 and cool emanated from her and her roses. The 
 hue of pleasure slowly deepened in her cheeks. 
 
 "You dear child!" she said at last, the spell 
 broken, "I can't remember when anybody has 
 said such a thing to me before." 
 
 She laid the roses in her mother's lap. "And 
 to think we're to keep her!" she added. 
 
 "Overnight," Mrs. Baron made haste to say. 
 "Yes, she is to be our guest until to-morrow." 
 
 "But nobody has inquired for her," said Flora. 
 "Victor's been telephoning. The police and the 
 people at the theatre " 
 
 "Where did you get such beautiful roses?" in- 
 quired Mrs. Baron, wholly by way of interruption. 
 The arch of her eyebrows was as a weather-signal 
 which Flora never disregarded. She changed the 
 subject. She had much to say about her ride. 
 But her eyes kept straying back to Bonnie May, 
 who remained silent, her body leaning slightly 
 
 40
 
 A Crisis 
 
 forward, her head pitched back, her eyes devour- 
 ing Miss Baron's face. The attitude was so touch- 
 ingly childlike that Flora had visions of herself 
 in a big rocking-chair, putting the little thing to 
 sleep, or telling her stories. " Only until to-morrow," 
 her mother had said, but no one was asking for the 
 child anywhere. Of course she would stay until 
 
 until 
 
 "Yes," she said absent-mindedly, in response to 
 a question by her mother, "they brought me home 
 in their car. They were so lovely to me!" Her 
 eyes strayed back to Bonnie May, whose rapt 
 gaze was fixed upon her. The child flushed and 
 smiled angelically. 
 
 If any constraint was felt during the dinner- 
 hour, Bonnie May was evidently less affected than 
 the others at table. 
 
 The one test which might have been regarded 
 as a critical one the appearance of the head of 
 the household was easily met. 
 
 Mr. Baron came home a little late and imme- 
 diately disappeared to dress for dinner. Bonnie 
 May did not get even a glimpse of him until the 
 family took their places at table. 
 
 "Hello! Who said there weren't any more 
 fairies?" was his cheerful greeting, as he stood an 
 instant beside his chair before he sat down. He 
 was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a pointed 
 gray beard, which seemed always to have been of
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 its present color, rather than to suggest venerable- 
 ness. He had piercing gray eyes, which seemed 
 formidable under their definite black eyebrows. 
 However, his eyes readily yielded to a twinkle 
 when he smiled. He still adhered rigidly to the cus- 
 tom of dressing formally for dinner, and he enter- 
 tained a suspicion that Victor's vocation, which 
 consisted of literary work of some indefinite kind, 
 was making him sadly Bohemian, since his son did 
 not perceive the need of being so punctilious. "It's 
 not as if we had company often," was Victor's de- 
 fense, on one occasion, of the course he had adopted; 
 but his father's retort had been that "they were 
 still in the habit of dining with one another." 
 
 "A little girl we are sheltering to-night," was 
 Mrs. Baron's explanation to her husband, who still 
 regarded the child at the opposite end of the table. 
 
 "I am Bonnie May," amended the child. "I 
 am very glad to meet you, I'm sure." She smiled 
 graciously and nodded with such dignity as was 
 compatible with a rather difficult position. She 
 was occupying an "adult" chair, and little more 
 than her head and shoulders was visible. She had 
 briefly yet firmly discouraged the suggestion that 
 she sit on a book. 
 
 "A protegee of Victor's," added Mrs. Baron, 
 with the amiable malice which the family easily 
 recognized. 
 
 But Flora noted the word "protegee" and smiled. 
 To her mind it suggested permanency. 
 
 42
 
 A Crisis 
 
 "A very fine little girl, I'm sure," was Mr. Baron's 
 comment. He was critically looking at the fowl 
 which Mrs. Shepard, housekeeper and woman of 
 all work, had placed before him. His entire atten- 
 tion was immediately monopolized by the carving 
 implements. He appeared to forget the child's 
 presence. 
 
 This fact is set down as a significant one, because 
 Flora and Baron, Jr., were both keenly and frankly 
 interested in his impression. If he didn't mind 
 having her about, another point in her favor would 
 have been gained. Mrs. Baron, too, was covertly 
 interested in his attitude. She was not quite sure 
 whether she wished him to confirm her fears or 
 to share her son's and daughter's faith in the un- 
 expected guest. 
 
 Thereafter the meal progressed somewhat silently. 
 Every individual in the group was alertly awaiting 
 developments. 
 
 "Children always like the drumstick," declared 
 Mr. Baron genially, looking at Bonnie May. 
 
 "Yes, I believe so," admitted the guest politely. 
 She added casually: "I usually prefer the wing." 
 
 Mr. Baron rested the carving knife and fork on 
 his plate and scrutinized the speaker sharply. 
 The child was opening her napkin with a kind of 
 elegant deliberation. 
 
 Then he smiled. "A wing it shall be," he de- 
 clared. 
 
 Later Mrs. Baron took occasion to assert her 
 
 43
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 authority. "Children should not stare," she de- 
 clared, trying to assume a severe contralto tone, 
 but taking care to smile, so that her rebuke would 
 seem to have been kindly offered. 
 
 Indeed, Bonnie May was paying less attention 
 to her dinner than to the exquisite napery, the 
 cut-glass vase in which some of Flora's roses had 
 been placed, the dinner-set of chaste design, and 
 to the countenances about her. 
 
 "Quite true," she admitted, in response to Mrs. 
 Baron. "But you know, when you get into a new 
 company, it's quite natural to size everybody up, 
 so you can make up your mind what to expect of 
 them." 
 
 She took a very small bite from a young green 
 onion, holding her little finger elegantly apart. 
 "How prettily the white blends with the green," 
 she said approvingly, looking critically at the 
 onion. 
 
 Mrs. Baron flushed. "My remark was that chil- 
 dren ought not to stare," she repeated persistently 
 and less gently. 
 
 The child's serenity failed her. " I don't, usually," 
 she said in painful embarrassment, "and I don't 
 believe I criticise people's manners, either, unless 
 it's in private." 
 
 She regained her self-control immediately. She 
 replaced the onion on her plate and lifted her nap- 
 kin to her lips with exquisite care. 
 
 The adult persons at the table were all looking 
 
 44
 
 A Crisis 
 
 from one to another. There were horizontal lines 
 in every forehead. 
 
 "I can't remember having been anywhere where 
 the service was so admirable," the guest added, 
 directing her glance toward her own section of 
 the board. There was a suggestion of gentle ennui 
 in her tone. 
 
 Mrs. Baron was glaring at her, her face aflame 
 with mortification. It was a countenance the family 
 was familiar with. 
 
 "Well, what have you been doing to-day, Vic- 
 tor?" inquired Mr. Baron jocosely. 
 
 It was the tone and the tactics he always 
 adopted when he wished to avoid a crisis. 
 
 And during the remainder of the meal, Bonnie 
 May was an extraordinarily circumspect and silent 
 little girl. 
 
 45
 
 CHAPTER V 
 BONNIE MAY OPENS THE DOOR 
 
 THERE was a polite, somewhat nervous exchange 
 of remarks at the table during the remainder of 
 the dinner-hour. It was the kind of conversation 
 that is employed sometimes not only to conceal 
 thought, but to divert attention from the fact that 
 there is anything to think about. 
 
 Nevertheless, every member of the family was 
 thinking hard and uncomfortably. 
 
 Baron, Sr., was trying patiently to determine 
 what subtle thing had gone wrong. Mrs. Baron, 
 he knew, was not disagreeable without at least 
 an imaginary cause. 
 
 Victor and Flora were thinking along somewhat 
 similar lines. Why had their mother deliberately 
 offended an inoff ending guest? They knew their 
 guest was readily to be classified as a "precocious" 
 child, and Mrs. Baron had always manifested a 
 strong dislike almost a dread of precocious chil- 
 dren, whose remarks are sometimes so disconcert- 
 ing to those who are not very liberal-minded. 
 
 But it was not at all likely that Bonnie May 
 would remain a member of the household longer 
 than a day or so. Indeed, it seemed quite prob- 
 
 46
 
 Bonnie May Opens the Door 
 
 able that she would be called for at any moment. 
 Such a child would not be permitted by relatives 
 or guardians to go begging. 
 
 Yet Mrs. Baron's conduct might have been ac- 
 cepted as that of one who begins the tutelage of an 
 adopted daughter. Had their mother jumped to 
 the conclusion that Bonnie May had come to live 
 with them permanently, and was she willing to 
 contemplate such an arrangement? 
 
 Beneath their small talk, therefore, they were 
 indulging in decidedly wild hopes and fancies. 
 
 When the family were about to leave the table, 
 Mrs. Baron called the housekeeper. The others 
 appeared not to notice particularly, but secretly 
 they were all attention. 
 
 Said Mrs. Baron: 
 
 "Mrs. Shepard, this little girl's name is Bonnie 
 May. She is to stay with us this evening. Will 
 you see that the spare room in the attic is made 
 ready? and if you can add to her comfort in any 
 way, I'm sure you will." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Shepard. The good, 
 simple creature was trying to hide her amazement. 
 The child had been a guest at the table and she 
 was to be put up in the attic to sleep ! The attic 
 was really a third floor; but it was used mainly 
 for storing things, and for the houseman's quarters. 
 She regarded Bonnie May briefly and her eyes 
 twinkled ! The child was smiling at her amiably. 
 
 "Mother!" was Flora's hesitating remonstrance, 
 
 47
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 and Victor paid such studious heed to the folding 
 of his napkin that it was evident he was trying to 
 hide his discomfort. In a moment he spoke quite 
 casually: "I'm afraid it will be lonesome up there 
 for her, mother. Suppose you let her have my 
 room to-night. I won't mind giving it up." 
 
 "Nonsense! There's no need of your being dis- 
 turbed." Mrs. Baron's forehead was still creased 
 by menacing horizontal lines. 
 
 The guest interposed. The family was rising, 
 and she stood with her back to the table. "If 
 you don't mind, Mrs. Baron," she said evenly, 
 "I'll go back and make friends with Mrs. Shepard. 
 You know I dearly love the people who take the 
 the character parts. They're usually so comfort- 
 able!" 
 
 "Well, run along." She tried not to speak im- 
 patiently. She felt that there was general disap- 
 proval of her mood. 
 
 The guest went into the kitchen. At the door 
 she turned. "It was a lovely dinner," she said 
 politely. Then she disappeared. 
 
 Silence followed, and the family dispersed. Mr. 
 Baron was going out somewhere. Victor strolled 
 musingly up into the library. Flora followed her 
 mother up into the sitting-room. There was a 
 good deal of mental tension, considering the very 
 slight foundation for it. 
 
 In the kitchen Bonnie May's glad bearing van- 
 ished. She became strangely pensive for a little 
 
 48
 
 Bonnie May Opens the Door 
 
 girl. Mrs. Baron did not like her! That was evi- 
 dent. Yet what had she done, save to take her 
 own part, as she had always had to do? 
 
 Mrs. Shepard did not realize that the child was 
 troubled. When children were troubled, according 
 to Mrs. . Shepard's experience, their lips trembled 
 or their eyes filled with tears. There were no such 
 signs to be read in Bonnie May's face. She was 
 standing there in that dazed fashion because she 
 was in a strange place, of course. 
 
 "Wait until my work's done and I'll bake you a 
 little cake!" said Mrs. Shepard. She was delighted 
 with the idea. It occurred to her that it would be 
 a great pleasure to bake a little cake for the child. 
 
 "A little cake?" responded Bonnie May du- 
 biously. "It's kind of you, you know, but really 
 I've just dined." She put all troubled thoughts 
 away from her. The kitchen was really a wonderful 
 place. She examined various utensils with in- 
 terest. They had all been used. She had seen 
 many of these things before, but they had always 
 been shiny and new. The property-man had taken 
 care of them. 
 
 A little bell above Mrs. Shepard's head tinkled 
 energetically. The housekeeper sighed heavily and 
 began wiping her hands hastily. 
 
 "What is it?" inquired Bonnie May. 
 
 "The front-door bell," was the answer. 
 
 "Oh! how interesting. Let me answer it 
 do!" 
 
 49
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 And before Mrs. Shepard could carefully consider 
 the matter, she gave a reluctant consent. She 
 would have explained what one should do under 
 certain contingencies, but there hadn't been time. 
 Bonnie May was gone. 
 
 As the child passed through the hall she heard 
 the family moving about up-stairs. Their voices 
 seemed quite remote; they were almost inaudible. 
 Bonnie May thought it quite probable that they 
 had not heard the summons at the door. 
 
 She felt a new kind of elation at being permitted 
 to officiate in even a very small domestic function. 
 She was going to admit some one who really came 
 from out of the unknown whose every word 
 and movement would . not be . known to her be- 
 forehand. 
 
 Then the mansion "seemed "to become strangely 
 silent, as if it were listening uneasily to learn who 
 it was that had come out of the darkness and 
 sounded a summons to those within. 
 
 Bonnie May caught her breath. Her face was 
 fairly glowing when she opened the door. 
 
 A gentleman stood there; a man who was very 
 substantial-looking and by no means formidable 
 in appearance. The hall-light fell on him. It 
 seemed to Bonnie May that he was quite middle- 
 aged. He was well-dressed in a rather informal 
 way. A short-cropped black mustache had the 
 effect of retreating slightly between two ruddy 
 cheeks. His eyes expressed some degree of merri- 
 
 50
 
 Bonnie May Opens the Door 
 
 ment of mischief, and this fact gave him standing 
 with Bonnie May immediately. 
 
 "Good evening," said Bonnie May in her most 
 friendly manner. She waited, looking inquiringly 
 up into the twinkling eyes. 
 
 "I came to see Miss Baron. Is she at home?" 
 
 "Will you come in? I'll see." 
 
 She led the way into the big drawing-room, 
 which was in complete darkness, save for such 
 rays of light as penetrated from the hall. "I'm 
 afraid I'll have to ask you to light the gas," she 
 added. "It's too high for me to reach." 
 
 "Maybe I'd better wait in the hall until you go 
 and teU Miss Flora." 
 
 "Certainly not. Light the gas, please." 
 
 He obeyed, and as the light fell suddenly upon 
 his face she saw that there was a mischievously med- 
 itative gleam in his eyes. 
 
 Still holding the burnt match in his fingers, he 
 turned to her. "I don't believe I've met you be- 
 fore?" he said. 
 
 "I only came to-day. Will you sit down?" 
 
 "You living here?" The caller appeared to be 
 in no hurry to have his arrival announced. He 
 listened a moment to the faint voices above, and 
 seemed reassured. 
 
 "Why, yes I think so. You see, I always live 
 wherever I happen to be." She smiled brightly, 
 to rob her words of any seeming unfriendliness. 
 She regarded him more in detail. He was a big- 
 Si
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 bodied man, with a proper tendency to dwindle 
 away neatly from the shoulders down. His hair 
 was of the sort that refuses to be quite nice. It 
 was astonishingly thick and dark, with an occa- 
 sional glint of silver in it, and it was close-cropped. 
 She liked the way he stood, too; his chest well out, 
 his head back, and as if nothing could disturb his 
 balance. Bonnie May had seen so many men who 
 stood as if they needed propping up, or as if they 
 would be more secure if they had four legs to stand 
 on. 
 
 He returned her careful scrutiny, and the look 
 of approval in her eyes brought a ruddier glow to 
 his cheeks and a merrier look to his eyes. 
 
 He sat down and held out both his hands, smil- 
 ing so broadly that she could see many white, 
 lustrous teeth. 
 
 She put her hands into his without hesitation. 
 She felt extraordinarily happy. 
 
 "Tell me," she whispered, "are you the the 
 Romeo in the cast?" 
 
 He released her hands and brought his own down 
 upon his knees with vehemence. His eyes were 
 almost shouting with merriment now. 
 
 "Wasn't Romeo in kind of bad standing with 
 his prospective parents-in-law?" 
 
 "Something like that. He couldn't see Her, ex- 
 cept up in a balcony." 
 
 He nodded his head. "Well, then, I'm the 
 Romeo!" 
 
 52
 
 Bonnie May Opens the Door 
 
 Again she regarded him critically. "You seem 
 a little old for the part," she suggested. 
 
 "Do you think so?" He was thoughtful for a 
 moment. "Maybe that's what Mrs. Baron thinks. 
 She won't even let me stand under a balcony, when 
 she can help it." 
 
 "Isn't she quaint!" This with smiling indul- 
 gence. "But of course you don't pay any atten- 
 tion to that?" 
 
 "Oh, yes I do; we we have to!" 
 
 Bonnie May looked puzzled. "I can't under- 
 stand it," she said. "You look like the kind that 
 they always play the loud music for." 
 
 "The loud music?" he echoed. 
 
 "As if you were the oldest son, come back in 
 the last act to lift the mortgage." 
 
 They smiled into each other's eyes, and then 
 Bonnie May drew close to him. She whispered: 
 "I'll see if I can't get her out of the balcony." She 
 turned toward the door. "Shall I just tell her that 
 Romeo is here?" 
 
 He stared after her in delighted amazement. 
 "Lord help us, no ! Say it's Mr. Addis." His face 
 radiated a joyous light even after she went out of 
 the room and softly closed the door. 
 
 She went up-stairs softly singing. At the door of 
 the sitting-room she paused. Within, Mrs. Baron 
 was reading one of those irreproachable-looking 
 books which are always about something very re- 
 mote. She did not look up at Bonnie May's approach. 
 
 S3
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Miss Baron occupied a soft seat in the bay win- 
 dow, and it was clear that she was troubled a little. 
 
 The child beckoned, and Flora's face instantly 
 brightened. 
 
 Mrs. Baron was fully aware of all that trans- 
 pired. She believed the guest was afraid of her. 
 She felt a mild gratification. 
 
 When Flora came out into the hall Bonnie May 
 whispered: "I want you to come down-stairs with 
 me." She took Flora's hand and patted it quite 
 blissfully. 
 
 They got to the foot of the stairs just in time to 
 see the outlines of a masculine form mounting the 
 front steps. The frosted glass in the door per- 
 mitted this much to be seen. 
 
 "Some one else!" commented Bonnie May, and 
 she turned to Flora. "Do you have so much com- 
 pany every evening?" she asked. 
 
 "So much company!" echoed Flora; she looked 
 puzzled. 
 
 "Well, never mind," Bonnie May hastened to 
 add. "Some one is expecting you in the drawing- 
 room. And please let me receive the new visitor ! " 
 
 She opened the drawing-room door, and watched 
 while Flora wonderingly entered. Then she pulled 
 the door to cautiously. She had heard a low, for- 
 lorn note of surprise in Flora's voice, and Mr. 
 Addis's eager, whispered greeting. 
 
 Then she opened the front door in time to pre- 
 vent the newcomer from ringing. 
 
 54
 
 'You seem a little old for the part," she suggested.
 
 Bonnie May Opens the Door 
 
 A young man of a rather assertive Bohemian 
 appearance stood before her. 
 
 "Hello!" was his greeting. The tone denoted 
 surprise, rather than familiarity He hastily added: 
 "Excuse me is Victor Mr. Baron in?" 
 
 Bonnie May perceived that he was not quite 
 comfortable, not at all self-possessed. He seemed 
 to her a strange person to be calling on any of the 
 Barons. Still, he seemed rather human. 
 
 "I'll see," she said. "Please step inside." She 
 would make him wait in the hall, she decided. 
 
 "Tell him, please, that Baggot has called that 
 I've brought the first act of my play." 
 
 "A play! Oh!" 
 
 Again she hurried up the stairs; this time with 
 unconcealed eagerness. When she entered Mrs. 
 Baron's room she hesitated. "If you'll excuse 
 me " she faltered. "I'm looking for Mr. Vic- 
 tor." 
 
 Mrs. Baron sat more erect, the open volume in 
 her lap. "Forming a little organization down- 
 stairs?" she asked. 
 
 "Some one's called for Mr. Victor. I wanted to 
 tdl him." 
 
 "Very well. He's in the library." She nodded 
 toward the adjoining room. 
 
 Victor was alone in the library. He was in the 
 attitude of one who is about to write, but he was 
 not writing. He was glowering at the paper before 
 him. 
 
 55
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 He sprang to his feet eagerly when Bonnie May 
 appeared. 
 
 "I've been thinking about you," he said. "Flora 
 has, too. We meant to come and find you before 
 long and get you away from Mrs. Shepard. We 
 didn't want to seem too eager, you know. We 
 wanted to wait until the governess 
 
 Bonnie May did not wait for him to finish; in- 
 deed, he seemed to have difficulty about finishing. 
 "Mr. Baggot has called," she said. "It's about a 
 play." She was breathing uneasily. "And couldn't 
 I sit with you and listen, please?" she added. 
 
 "Oh! Baggot! Baggot is one of my crosses, 
 Bonnie May. Couldn't you shut the door in his 
 face ? It would be quite proper. He is one of those 
 silly fellows who think they are destined to write 
 great plays. Couldn't you go down and put him 
 out?" 
 
 She looked at him steadily without a word. She 
 was smiling a little scornfully. 
 
 "Very well. Suppose you go and ask him to 
 come up this time." 
 
 "And do let me come too! They've often let 
 me listen when new plays were being read." 
 
 "Such wanton cruelty!" He shook his head 
 slowly, as if it were quite incredible. "Oh, well 
 you may come, too," he added. 
 
 Mrs. Baron glanced up from her book again when 
 Bonnie May and Baggot passed through the room. 
 She spoke to Baggot in the most casual manner. 
 
 56
 
 Bonnie May Opens the Door 
 
 Bonnie May concluded that he must be a somewhat 
 frequent visitor. Mrs. Baron was quite frank in 
 her indifference to him. "I think you'll find Victor 
 in the library," she said. She glanced pointedly at 
 the manuscript in his hand and frowned. "And 
 would you mind closing the door when you go in?" 
 
 Mrs. Baron achieved her cruelties sometimes with 
 such a naive directness that they seemed to many 
 people like a kind of high breeding. 
 
 Baggot stepped gingerly into the next room, fol- 
 lowed eagerly by Bonnie May. He was closing the 
 door softly when Baron greeted him. 
 
 "Hello, Baggot. Done something great again, 
 of course?" 
 
 "Yes, I have!" retorted Baggot angrily. He 
 wouldn't endure Baron's bad manners, no matter 
 how he might receive the bad manners of Baron's 
 mother. "You're going to say so, too. I've got 
 the first act finished. I've only got to fill in the 
 scenario of the other acts, and I've got the greatest 
 play that ever came out of America." 
 
 Baron smiled wearily. "And I'm to listen while 
 you read the first act of the greatest play, etc.?" 
 
 "Yes and you're to agree with me, too. I 
 don't see anything great in your sneering at me all 
 the time !" He pulled up a chair and sat down so 
 that his knees almost touched Baron's. 
 
 Obviously, they were a pair of young men oil 
 very intimate terms. 
 
 Bonnie May slipped into a remote corner of the 
 
 57
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 room and climbed into a big chair. Her hand sup- 
 ported her chin; her eyes were luminous. She did 
 not mean to miss a word. 
 
 And Baggot began to read. His face was al- 
 most tortured with nervous energy. He handled 
 the pages as if they were in hopeless confusion, 
 yet he brought order out of them swiftly. 
 
 The reading proceeded ten minutes, twenty 
 minutes, half an hour. Baggot read with pro- 
 found confidence and belief. His staccato tones 
 fairly hurled the words of the play at his auditors. 
 Baron had put away his cynic attitude. He had 
 become deeply impressed. He had even forgotten 
 that it was his favorite pose not to seem deeply 
 impressed by anything. 
 
 Bonnie May was like one in a beautiful dream. 
 She was not only listening to the play; she was 
 living it. 
 
 And then her dream was broken in a manner 
 which filled her mind with almost blank astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Baron appeared in the doorway. 
 
 "Bonnie May," she announced, "I think it's 
 high time for a little girl to be in bed."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 CONCERNING A FROCK 
 
 IT might have been, and should have been, 
 apparent to the several members of the Baron 
 household that Bonnie May had been giving an 
 admirable exhibition of self-repression from the 
 moment she had entered the house. 
 
 A change came at last when Mrs. Baron dis- 
 turbed the reading of the play and announced, at 
 nine o'clock, that it was "high time for a little 
 girl to be in bed." 
 
 Mrs. Baron couldn't possibly have realized how 
 Bonnie May had been accustomed to divide her 
 hours between sleeping and waking. The guest 
 had spent her life among player people, whose ac- 
 tive hours begin at noon or later, and who do not 
 deem the day ended until after midnight some- 
 times far later than midnight. Nor had it been 
 found convenient or needful by Bonnie May's 
 fellow workers to make any exception to the rule 
 on her behalf. She had been one of them, and she 
 had fared well and pleasantly. 
 
 Thus it was that when Mrs. Baron appeared, 
 somewhat like a bolt out of a clear sky, the child 
 gave way to overwhelming rebellion. 
 
 59
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "I'm not used to going to bed at this hour," she 
 declared bluntly. She arose and stood by her 
 chair, like a soldier by his guns, as the saying is. 
 And taking in the inexorable expression in Mrs. 
 Baron's eyes, she turned appealingly to Baron. 
 She was relying upon him to help her. 
 
 "Couldn't she " began Baron weakly, and 
 added, quite without conviction: "You know it's 
 Saturday night, mother!" He was glad he had 
 thought of its being Saturday, though he couldn't 
 see why that should make very much difference. 
 He really believed his mother's position was strong 
 enough, if she had only gone about the matter 
 more tactfully. 
 
 "Saturday night doesn't make any difference," 
 declared Bonnie May, her rebellion now including 
 Baron in its scope. "It just isn't a reasonable 
 bedtime." 
 
 Baron felt ready to surrender. "Anyway, it 
 won't be so bad just for one night," he ventured. 
 
 "Never mind, Victor," said Mrs. Baron point- 
 edly. She addressed herself to Bonnie May. 
 "What you've been accustomed to may not be 
 quite so important as what you ought to become 
 accustomed to," she said. "Come!" 
 
 The child sauntered thoughtfully from the room. 
 She had been impressed by the fact that even Baron 
 had not seemed surprised by the suggestion that 
 she ought to go to bed. She was trying to com- 
 prehend the situation. After all, people who were 
 
 60
 
 Concerning a Frock 
 
 not of the profession had ways of their own, she 
 realized. If they had all decided to go to bed, she 
 wouldn't have minded so much. But they were 
 laying down a special law for her. 
 
 Rebellion triumphed again. In Mrs. Baron's 
 room she halted. "Where am I to sleep?" she in- 
 quired. 
 
 "I think you heard me tell Mrs. Shepard to pre- 
 pare a room." 
 
 "In the attic? Yes. But I'm not going to sleep 
 there." 
 
 "Indeed, you are." 
 
 "I beg your pardon! Not under any circum- 
 stances!" 
 
 Mrs. Baron lifted her fingers to her lips and 
 coughed a very inexpert cough. "You'll have to 
 do as I tell you, you know." She resumed a res- 
 olute march toward the hall, her hand pressed 
 firmly against Bonnie May's back. 
 
 The child jerked away with a sense of outrage. 
 She had never been treated so before. 
 
 "Truly, you'll have to obey me," repeated Mrs. 
 Baron. 
 
 Bonnie May was alarmed; she quite lost control 
 of herself. "Stop your kiddin'!" she said with a 
 catch in her voice. She tried to say it playfully, 
 but her self-possession was gone. Her remark 
 had sounded simply offensive, indelicate. 
 
 "And I can't permit you to use such language, 
 either!" declared Mrs. Baron. 
 
 61
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 The dismayed guest pressed her hands to her 
 eyes as if she were trying to think clearly. 
 
 Then she made a rush for the stairway ! 
 
 Mrs. Baron put dignity aside long enough to 
 pursue her, to seize her by the arm. She was be- 
 coming outraged, greatly indignant. "What do 
 you mean to do?" she demanded, her voice trem- 
 bling slightly. 
 
 "I'm quitting." 
 
 "You're " 
 
 "I won't stay here!" 
 
 The distressed old gentlewoman tried to calm her- 
 self. "Where do you think of going?" she asked. 
 
 "Anywhere to the theatres. Any company in 
 town will be glad to have me. They will know who 
 I am. They they are the kind of people who will 
 appreciate me !" The words were spoken in a tone 
 of heart-break, of despair. 
 
 Mrs. Baron afterward confessed to members of 
 her family that for the first time in her life she felt 
 completely helpless. She was, in truth, a somewhat 
 childish person in many ways, and she was not ac- 
 customed to any unpleasantnesses save those which 
 she created for others. 
 
 At any rate, she swallowed with difficulty and 
 surrendered. "It's a very small point, after all," 
 she said ungraciously. "Go into my room. Flora 
 will look after you." She spoke coldly, all her 
 interest seemingly withdrawn. 
 
 And just as the guest disappeared into Mrs. 
 
 62
 
 Concerning a Frock 
 
 Baron's sitting-room, Flora came almost stealthily 
 up the stairs. 
 
 "I wish you'd put that little limb of Satan to 
 bed," she said. Flora saw that her mother's hand, 
 on the balustrade, trembled. 
 
 "Where shall I put her?" she inquired. 
 
 "Anywhere! just so you get her covered up for 
 the night." 
 
 Flora paused, her eyes uneasily seeking her 
 mother's. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're angry with me, mother," 
 she said humbly. 
 
 "With you? Certainly not." 
 
 Flora was puzzled. Her mother had long ago 
 declared that Mr. Addis must not be accepted as 
 a visitor. Did she know that he had just gone? 
 She was about to enter her mother's sitting-room 
 when something prompted her to turn. 
 
 "You knew Mr. Addis called, didn't you?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Mrs. Baron's face flamed again. "Knew it? 
 Certainly, I didn't know it ! I've told Mrs. Shep- 
 ard I don't intend that he shall annoy you!" 
 
 "Oh, mother! He doesn't! And I think Mrs. 
 Shepard didn't know, this time. Bonnie May 
 went to the door and let him in. She called me 
 down-stairs without telling me who it was." Flora 
 surveyed her mother yearningly, yet with a kind 
 of gentle courage. "I don't believe in hiding things 
 from you, mother. But I was glad to see him." 
 
 63
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Mrs. Baron looked grimly toward her own door. 
 "She let him in ! Very well. Put her to bed !" 
 
 She descended the stairs with dignity. She 
 must have been thinking of future victories rather 
 than of past defeats. 
 
 When Flora entered the sitting-room she found 
 Bonnie May standing in uneasy contemplation. 
 
 "Mother says I'm to put you to bed," said Miss 
 Baron. 
 
 "Why didn't she go ahead and put me to bed 
 herself?" 
 
 Flora perceived that the question was not want- 
 ing in sincerity. She decided to answer quite hon- 
 estly. 
 
 "I think," she ventured gently, "you must have 
 said something to vex her." 
 
 "Not at all. She tried to vex me. I behaved 
 very properly." 
 
 Flora sighed and shook her head slowly; but 
 she was smiling, too. She was wondering what it 
 really was that had gone wrong. "Possibly you 
 didn't want to obey her?" she ventured. 
 
 The child's brow puckered. "But why should 
 I want to obey her?" 
 
 "Why because she's going to be good to you, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 "Well, I mean to be good to her, too if she'll 
 let me. And I don't ask her to obey me." 
 
 "But it's different. She's an old lady." 
 
 64
 
 Concerning a Frock 
 
 "Well, I've got no patience with old people. 
 It's all right, just as a part, but there's no use put- 
 ting it on all the time." 
 
 "But, dear," implored Flora, drawing the child 
 within the curve of her arm, "don't say that! I 
 know you mean to be nice and kind, but truly you 
 don't understand. We must all grow old some 
 time even you will get to be old." 
 
 The guest gave deliberate thought to this; then 
 her expression became resolute. "Well, if they 
 ever hang any gray hairs on me they'll have to 
 catch me when I'm asleep I'll tell you that right 
 now." 
 
 Miss Baron was not encouraged to argue the 
 point any further. She resumed the subject of 
 going to bed. 
 
 "You know I'm to have his room your 
 brother's?" the guest insisted. 
 
 "Mother said you might sleep where you liked." 
 
 "Did she say that?" 
 
 "Almost exactly." 
 
 "Well, where is that attic room?" 
 
 "It's up one more flight of stairs under the roof." 
 
 The child looked quite wistful and earnest, and 
 then her words came with conviction. "I just 
 couldn't sleep up there. Attics are where misers 
 sleep, and poor children. It's where people die of 
 hunger and cold. It's never the right kind of peo- 
 ple. Come, let's go to his room." 
 
 And so they did. 
 
 65
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "You won't mind my helping you?" pleaded 
 Flora. 
 
 "Helping me?" 
 
 "To undress, you know and to be tucked in!" 
 
 The guest looked at her unresponsively. "But 
 I've been used to doing that for myself," she said. 
 
 Flora quickly stooped and took her into her 
 arms impulsively. "Dear child," she cried, her 
 voice tremulous, "let me do it to-night! I think 
 you'll love it and I'll love it, too." She drew the 
 perplexed face almost roughly against her own. 
 
 She did not wait to be refused. She hurried 
 into the bathroom and busied herself; she was 
 singing a little crooning song. There was also the 
 noise of water splashing into the tub. 
 
 She reappeared presently. "The water is ready 
 for your bath, you know, and I've left one of my 
 nighties there for you." She smiled happily. "Of 
 course it will be too big. I'll make you some little 
 ones soon." 
 
 The seeming perversion of the child asserted it- 
 self again. "I usually take my bath in the morn- 
 ing," she said a little stiffly; but she saw how the 
 glad light in Miss Baron's eyes wavered, and she 
 added quickly, "but it will be all right." And 
 she went out into the bathroom. 
 
 When she reappeared after a rather long time 
 she was smiling radiantly. She had on Flora's 
 nightgown, soft and white, with pink ribbons. She 
 held it daintily up before her feet, and glanced 
 
 66
 
 ^Concerning a Frock 
 
 back at the train that dragged behind. "Isn't it 
 lovely!" she said. 
 
 "It is, dear," said Flora. 
 
 She had turned the white coverlet and the sheet 
 down. Now she watched the child scramble up into 
 the bed. She wanted to help, but she refrained. 
 
 "Would you like me to tell you a story?" asked 
 Flora. 
 
 Bonnie May looked at her swiftly, incredulously. 
 " No ! " she said. She burst out into riotous laughter. 
 "I'm not an infant," she explained. 
 
 Flora flushed. "Very well," she said gently. 
 Yet she lingered in the room a little while. She 
 put some of Victor's masculine decorations out of 
 sight. She adjusted the blind. She was about to 
 extinguish the light when she looked again at the 
 strange guest. 
 
 The child's eyes were fixed upon her widely, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "You lovely thing!" said Bonnie May. 
 
 "Good night, dear!" said Flora. And then she 
 knew that the child wished to speak to her, and 
 she went over and bent above the bed. "What 
 is it, Bonnie May?" she asked. 
 
 The child stared before her in silence for a mo- 
 ment and then the words came. "I wished so 
 much that she would love me!" she said. "I tried 
 so hard. . . ." 
 
 Flora slipped her hand under the guest's head. 
 "I'll tell you a secret," she whispered. "If she 
 
 67
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 hadn't cared for you, she would have been quite 
 polite; she would have been wonderfully gracious. 
 She was ungracious and unkind because because 
 she loved you, dear. It seems absurd, doesn't it? 
 But I know." 
 
 It was an absurd theory, perhaps; yet there was 
 certainly needed some explanation of Mrs. Baron's 
 course later in the evening. 
 
 The house became quiet after a time. The rumb- 
 ling voices in the library ceased and Baggot, with 
 meticulous circumspection, wended his way down 
 the stairs and was gone. Later, Victor emerged 
 from the library and disappeared for the night. 
 Baron, Sr., came in and sat and smoked awhile 
 and retired. Flora sat in the sitting-room linger- 
 ingly, gazing pensively at a book without turning 
 its pages, and at length she arose and kissed her 
 mother's cheek and said good night. 
 
 And then Mrs. Baron tiptoed into another room 
 and rummaged in a bureau drawer and found a gay 
 piece of gingham which had been waiting its time to 
 be useful. With this in her hands she returned to 
 her sitting-room, and spread work materials upon 
 her table. And with patience and fortitude and a 
 kind of rapt self-absorption she worked far into the 
 night. 
 
 The usual Sunday morning quietude of the man- 
 sion was disturbed somewhat when the family 
 
 68
 
 Concerning a Frock 
 
 again assembled. An extraordinary event had oc- 
 curred. 
 
 Mrs. Baron had sat up late the night before and 
 had made a Dress. 
 
 In announcing the fact she had pronounced the 
 word in such a manner that the use of the capital 
 letter is fully justified. She displayed the Dress 
 for the admiration of her son and her daughter, 
 and her husband. And finally she generously re- 
 linquished it to Flora. "You may give it to her," 
 she said rather loftily. 
 
 Bonnie May had not yet appeared. 
 
 Flora knocked softly on the guest's door and 
 without waiting went into the room, displaying the 
 new garment rather conspicuously. 
 
 "What's that?" inquired Bonnie May dubiously. 
 
 "It's a new dress for you." 
 
 "It was never made for me," affirmed the child 
 with conviction. 
 
 "Indeed, it was. Mother sat up ever so late 
 last night and made it for you." 
 
 "Well, that, of course, was a matter I should 
 have been consulted about." 
 
 Bonnie May was now sitting on the edge of the 
 bed, trying to make the toes of one foot come in 
 contact with the floor. Miss Baron sat on a low 
 chair in the middle of the room, the new dress 
 spread across her knees. 
 
 "But you're glad, aren't you?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm glad in a way. I'm glad that anybody so 
 69
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 disagreeable could really try to do you a good 
 turn." Clearly, each day was a new day, with 
 Bonnie May. 
 
 "But, dear child, mother won't seem disagree- 
 able to you when you come to know her. It hurts 
 me to have you speak so of her truly it does. 
 And I think she must have worked until she was 
 very weary, making the dress for you." 
 
 "I appreciate all that," the guest hastened to 
 explain, genuine compunction in her voice. "But 
 you see, the dress isn't at all suitable." 
 
 "I'm sure you'll like it much better when you 
 try it on." 
 
 "Take my word for it it won't do." 
 
 Miss Baron felt for the moment as if she could 
 have pounced upon the child and spanked her. 
 But she noticed how one curl fell outside her ear, 
 and how the eyes and voice were profoundly earnest, 
 and how the attitude was eloquent of a kind of re- 
 pentance before the fact. 
 
 And so she said: "Won't you do something for 
 me that will please me better than anything else 
 I can think of something that will take only a 
 minute?" 
 
 Bonnie May looked at her meditatively and 
 then began to laugh quite riotously! "You don't 
 look the part!" she gurgled in justification. 
 
 "What part, please?" The question was put 
 somewhat blankly. 
 
 "You're talking like a oh, a Lady Clare, and 
 you haven't even got your shoes buttoned up !" 
 
 70
 
 Concerning a Frock 
 
 Miss Baron slowly regarded her shoes; then her 
 glance travelled calmly to Bonnie May; then she 
 rather dully inspected the dress that lay across 
 her knees. Her countenance had become inscru- 
 table. She turned away from the guest's scrutiny, 
 and after a moment she arose slowly and left the 
 room, carrying the dress with her. 
 
 She did not stop to define her feelings. She was 
 wounded, but she felt sharp resentment, and she 
 was thinking rebelliously that she was in no degree 
 responsible for Bonnie May. Still ... her sense 
 of justice stayed her. She had the conviction that 
 the child's remark, if inexcusably frank, was a fair 
 one. And it had been made so joyously ! 
 
 However, she meant to go to her mother with a 
 request to be excused from any further humiliation 
 as Bonnie May's handmaiden. But before she had 
 proceeded half a dozen steps she began to fear 
 even greater disaster, if Mrs. Baron should under- 
 take to be the bearer of the rejected dress. 
 
 It would be a victory worth working for, if she 
 could overcome the fastidious guest's prejudice. 
 
 She went to her room and carefully buttoned her 
 shoes and made other improvements in her toilet. 
 Then she went back into Bonnie May's presence. 
 
 "I was untidy," she confessed. "I hope you'll 
 excuse me." She was smoothing out the new dress. 
 "You see, I only meant to wear my every-day shoes 
 until after breakfast, and then put on my good 
 shoes, for Sunday-school and church. And I've 
 been very busy."
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Bonnie May pondered this judicially. "It's 
 lovely of you to be so nice about it," she finally 
 admitted, "but I'm afraid I don't get your 
 idea. . . ." She frowned. "Every-day shoes' and 
 'Sunday shoes,'" she repeated vaguely. 
 
 "Well?" said Flora persuasively. 
 
 "Don't you like to be as good on Saturday as 
 on Sunday?" 
 
 "Why, yes just as good, certainly." Flora was 
 looking bewildered. 
 
 "And on Friday, and on other days?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't you wear your 'good' shoes 
 all the week, then?" 
 
 "But people must look nicer on Sundays than 
 on other days." 
 
 "I don't see why. If you only look nice, I 
 don't ace what's the good. And if you really are 
 nice, I think the nice shoes might help all the 
 time." 
 
 "What I mean is," persisted Flora patiently, 
 " I don't like to work in my nice shoes." She brought 
 this out somewhat triumphantly. 
 
 "That's funny. That's the very time I like to 
 look my best. Nothing is as important as your 
 work, is it?" 
 
 Flora was almost in despair. "I doubt if I ever 
 thought of it in just that light," she admitted. 
 "I'll think it over, if you'll try the dress on and 
 if you don't like it, off it comes!" 
 
 72
 
 Concerning a Frock 
 
 "Well, all right." (This with a sudden calm 
 which was not reassuring.) 
 
 Flora slipped the gingham dress into place, and 
 patted it here and there with the air of one who 
 admires, and viewed it with her head inclined a 
 little, as women do in such a situation. "It's the 
 dearest thing!" she said honestly. "Now come 
 and see how you look." 
 
 The mirror was a little high. She lifted Bonnie 
 May to a chair. 
 
 She was alarmed by what ensued. The child 
 stared fixedly, with incredulous eyes in which a 
 great horror grew. 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" she cried, clapping her hands over 
 her eyes. "Take it off ! Take it off !" 
 
 "What in the world is the matter?" demanded 
 Flora. 
 
 " She asks me what is the matter ! Oh, heavens ! " 
 Bonnie May jumped down from the chair and 
 turned her back to the mirror. She was wringing 
 her hands. 
 
 "I don't understand at all!" exclaimed Miss 
 Baron hopelessly. 
 
 "You might !" was the emphatic rejoinder. "Do 
 you suppose I want to play that kind of a part 
 here? It might do for the little sister of a sewing- 
 machine girl, or a mountain-pink with her hair in 
 knobs. But it wouldn't do for anything else. If 
 you was only one of the populace, a costume like 
 that would cause a scream! If you don't under- 
 
 73
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 stand it, take my word for it. I can't wear it ! I 
 ask you to take it off !" 
 
 Miss Baron became very quiet. She became 
 thoughtful, too. She had not failed to catch the 
 drift of these exaggerated words. There was some- 
 thing prim, something rudimentary, about the 
 dress. Color suffused her cheeks; she hung her 
 head. She felt a forlorn inclination to laugh. From 
 a vantage point behind the child she began to re- 
 move the gingham dress. 
 
 It was inappropriate. She had to admit it. It 
 was a dress for a Gretchen; for the Cinderella of 
 the kitchen, rather than the princess of the coach- 
 and-four. It wasn't becoming at all. 
 
 74
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 A SUNDAY MORNING 
 
 THE Barons were the kind of family that have 
 just one morning newspaper left at their door on 
 Sunday, and who believe that it contains every- 
 thing that ought to concern them in any way 
 that whatever is published in any other newspaper 
 is to be regarded with scepticism, or lightly dis- 
 credited. 
 
 Yet on this particular Sunday morning Victor 
 Baron arose early and intercepted the paper-carrier, 
 and amazed that industrious youth by buying a 
 copy of every journal he carried. 
 
 With this not inconsiderable burden under his 
 arm he betook himself to the library and began an 
 eager search for certain information. 
 
 He scanned all the advertising columns system- 
 atically, and then turned to the news departments. 
 
 A great heap of discarded "sections" grew about 
 him as he progressed, and little by little a look of 
 troubled anticipation vanished from his eyes. The 
 last section of the last paper was cast away with 
 an air of triumph. 
 
 He hadn't been able to find a single word about 
 any child who was lost, or who had strayed, or who 
 had been stolen ! 
 
 75
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Good!" he exclaimed, and he looked with great 
 relief at the heap of papers about him, their splotches 
 of color and assertive head-lines having no further 
 interest for him. He smiled complacently. 
 
 In the meantime, in the sunny sitting-room up- 
 stairs, Flora had broken the news to Mrs. Baron 
 the news touching Bonnie May and the new dress. 
 
 It had been a very difficult thing to do, because 
 Mrs. Baron was always at her worst on Sunday 
 mornings. 
 
 It was on Sunday mornings that she felt most 
 keenly the lapse of the neighborhood from former 
 glories to a condition of sordid griminess. It was 
 on these mornings that she fared forth to the old 
 church, only three blocks away, in which the best 
 people in town had formerly worshipped, but which 
 had been deserted by nearly all the old parish- 
 ioners. 
 
 It was Mrs. Baron's contention that it was in- 
 delicate, to say the least, for people to desert a 
 church. There were things in the church life, she 
 maintained, which could not be transplanted, and 
 which constituted the very warp and woof of the 
 domestic as well as the social foundations. She 
 had come to regard herself as a kind of standard- 
 bearer in this relationship, and she attended ser- 
 vices somewhat ostentatiously, with the belief that 
 she was not only lending her influence, but ad- 
 ministering a rebuke as well. Ignoring the pro- 
 tests of her family, she had even consented to play
 
 A Sunday Morning 
 
 the organ for the Sunday-school services. As 
 young lady she had learned to read music, as a 
 matter of course, and though she possessed na 
 musical intelligence, and had found it impossible to 
 regain the old manual skill she had once possessed, 
 she played the simple hymns with a kind of proud 
 rigor, because she believed her participation in the 
 services in this direction must impart an authority 
 to the proceedings which the abler playing of some 
 obscure individual could not have imparted. 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Baron was a personage on Sunday 
 mornings; a gallant general leading a forlorn hope 
 proudly and firmly. 
 
 When Flora confessed to her that the dress had 
 been rejected, she was too greatly amazed to say 
 a great deal. She had also entered upon her stoic 
 mood her Sunday-morning mood. 
 
 "You see, she is simply determined not to get 
 along," she declared with finality. She took the- 
 dress into her own hands and regarded it critically .- 
 "Do you see how carefully the feather-stitching is- 
 done?" she demanded. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Flora, "the the feather-stitching 
 is beautiful. But really, I don't believe she is- 
 simply perverse. If you could have seen the dis-- 
 may in her eyes " Flora smiled at the recollectionr 
 
 "I've seen women like that," Mrs. Baron con~ 
 tinued, "women who like to make difficulties; who 
 go into hysterics over little things. It's always 
 just a lack of sense that's all it is." 
 
 77
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Yes or temperament. I expect there's a good 
 deal in what people call temperament. I didn't 
 know children had it so much, but Bonnie May 
 isn't like other children. Maybe she has a good 
 deal of temperament." 
 
 They examined the dress together without any 
 very definite purpose. 
 
 " She ought to know she can't go on wearing that 
 silly thing she came here in," was Mrs. Baron's 
 next comment. 
 
 "She must realize that," agreed Flora. She 
 added casually: "I think something soft, with a 
 little color in it, might please her. You might let 
 me try next time." 
 
 This was the wrong note again. "As if I weren't 
 capable of making a child's dress!" protested Mrs. 
 Baron. 
 
 "I only meant it would be fair to divide the 
 work," Flora explained gently. "I didn't mean I 
 could do it better." 
 
 As if her anger had been effectually checked in 
 that direction, Mrs. Baron hit upon another pos- 
 sible grievance. "And she's going to Sunday- 
 school to-day," she affirmed in a tone which seemed 
 to take account of difficulties. "We've done our 
 best to dress her decently. And I don't intend to 
 humor a little pagan as long as she's in a Christian 
 household." 
 
 "But in that that peculiar dress?" faltered 
 Flora. She had a vision of Bonnie May in her 
 fantastic old frock associating with the prim chil- 
 
 78
 
 A Sunday Morning 
 
 dren of poverty who were now the mainstay of the 
 Sunday-school. 
 
 "She may walk with Mrs. Shepard. People may 
 believe she belongs to her, if they want to." 
 
 "Oh, mother!" There was something almost 
 despairing in Flora's tone. 
 
 "It's the best we can do. I mean to do my duty 
 and I'm not willing to look ridiculous." 
 
 Again Miss Baron perceived breakers ahead. 
 If the child conceived the idea that she was being 
 commanded to go anywhere she would very prob- 
 ably develop new methods of resistance. If she 
 were politely invited to accompany other members 
 of the household to church, she might decide to be 
 altogether gracious. 
 
 She entertained a lingering regret that the guest 
 could not be persuaded to wear the new dress in 
 which, certainly, she would be conspicuous enough, 
 but not quite in a flaunting fashion. She even 
 thought of Victor, and wondered if he might not 
 be able to prevail upon the child to accede to the 
 wishes of her elders. But upon second thought 
 she decided not to involve her brother in a phase 
 of the problem which did not touch him. She sus- 
 pected there would be other phases, more in his 
 line, in due tune. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the object of all this solicitous 
 thought was leisurely preparing to make her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 That she had no fresh raiment to put on was 
 
 79
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 not particularly disquieting. The fact that it was 
 a Sunday morning made no difference to her at 
 all. Certainly she needed fresh linen, but this, 
 she philosophically concluded, would be provided 
 within another day or two. Her shoes were quite 
 new and neat, and she was by no means ashamed 
 of the dress which now constituted her complete 
 wardrobe. 
 
 On a chair by her bed she made discoveries. 
 There was a fresh towel; a little package which 
 obviously contained a tooth-brush; a box of tooth- 
 powder, and crowning gift a new hair-ribbon of 
 adorable width and hue. 
 
 She tucked these things under one arm, and with 
 her free hand she carefully gathered Flora's long 
 nightgown away from her feet. Then she started 
 to the bathroom. 
 
 In the hall she paused to be sure that the way 
 was clear. 
 
 Silence reigned, save for the murmur of voices 
 down-stairs far, indistinct. 
 
 The hall was glorious with indirect rays of the 
 sun. It had wonderful spaciousness, too. Bonnie 
 May gazed down the broad stairway, duskily bright 
 and warm and silent, and her expression was quite 
 blissful. She turned and looked up to the landing 
 above reached by a narrower flight of stairs. It 
 seemed splendidly remote, and here the sunlight 
 fell in a riotous flood. 
 
 Her sensations must have been something akin 
 80
 
 A Sunday Morning 
 
 to those of a mocking-bird that inspects the vernal 
 world in May. She released the folds of the night- 
 gown and "paraded" to and fro in the hall, looking 
 back over her shoulder at the train. She had put 
 the garment on again, after Flora's advent with 
 the gingham dress, primarily for the purpose of 
 making the journey from her room to her bath. 
 But there had been a distinct pleasure in wearing 
 it, too. She thought it made her look like a fairy 
 queen. She felt the need of a tinsel crown and a 
 wand with a gilded star at its end. 
 
 She was executing a regal turn in the hall when 
 her glance was attracted upward to some moving 
 object on the landing above. 
 
 A most extraordinary ancient man stood there 
 watching her. 
 
 Realizing that he had been discovered, he turned 
 in a kind of panic and disappeared into regions un- 
 known. His mode of locomotion was quite unusual. 
 If Bonnie May had been familiar with nautical 
 terms she would have said that he was tacking, as 
 he made his agitated exit. 
 
 As for Bonnie May, she scampered into the bath- 
 room, the flowing train suddenly gripped in her 
 fingers. 
 
 Down-stairs they were listening for her, though 
 they pretended not to be doing so. They heard 
 her in the bathroom; later they heard movements 
 in her bedroom. And at last she was descending 
 the stairs leisurely, a care-free song on her lips. 
 
 81
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 She invaded the dining-room. Mr. Baron had 
 been lingering over his coffee. The various parts 
 of the morning paper were all about him. 
 
 "Good morning," was Bonnie May's greeting. 
 She nodded brightly. "I hope I'm not intruding?" 
 
 "Not at all!" Mr. Baron glanced at her with 
 real friendliness. It had not occurred to him that 
 her dress was fantastic. What he had noticed was 
 that her face was positively radiant, and that she 
 spoke as he imagined a duchess might have done. 
 
 "You might like to look at the colored supple- 
 ment," he added, fishing around through the vari- 
 ous sections of the paper at his feet. 
 
 "I thank you, I'm sure; but isn't it rather silly?" 
 She added deferentially: "Is there a theatrical 
 page?" 
 
 Mr. Baron coughed slightly, as he always did 
 when he was disconcerted. "There is, I believe," 
 he said. He glanced over his shoulder toward a 
 closed door. "I'm not sure Mrs. Baron would ap- 
 prove of your looking at the theatrical department 
 on Sunday," he added. 
 
 "Really! And you don't think she'd see any 
 harm in looking at the comic pictures?" 
 
 Mr. Baron removed his glasses and wiped them 
 carefully. "She would probably regard the comic 
 pictures as the lesser of two evils," he said. 
 
 "Well, I never did like to be a piker. If I'm go- 
 ing into a thing, I like to go in strong." , She made 
 this statement pleasantly. 
 
 82
 
 A most extraordinary ancient man stood there watching her.
 
 A Sunday Morning 
 
 Mr. Baron put his glasses on somewhat hurriedly 
 and looked hard at the child. He perceived that 
 she was looking at him frankly and with a slight 
 constriction at her throat, as was always the case 
 when she felt she must hold her ground against 
 attack. 
 
 "I rather think you're right," he said reassur- 
 ingly. "I'm not sure I know how to find the theat- 
 rical page. Would you mind looking?" 
 
 But Flora interrupted here. She entered the 
 room with the air of one who has blessings to be- 
 stow. 
 
 "You're invited to go to Sunday-school with us 
 after a while," she informed the guest. 
 
 "You're very kind, I'm sure. What's it like?" 
 
 " Oh, there are children, and music, and " Flora 
 paused. She wished to make her statement attrac- 
 tive as well as truthful. 
 
 "A kind of spectacle?" suggested the guest. 
 
 "Hardly that. But there's somebody to tell 
 stories. It's very nice, I think." 
 
 "It certainly sounds good to me. If they've 
 got any good people I might like to get into it, 
 until I find an opening in my own line." 
 
 Mr. Baron removed his glasses again. "Flora, 
 would you undertake to tell me what she means?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 Miss Baron pinched her lips and looked at him 
 with a kind of ripple of joy in her eyes. "Isn't 
 it plain?" she asked. She went out of the room 
 
 83
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 then, and he heard her laughing somewhere in the 
 distance. 
 
 He coughed again ancj turned to his paper, and 
 so, for the first time in her life, Bonnie May was in 
 a fair way of going to Sunday-school. 
 
 Victor didn't approve of the idea at all, when it 
 was presently made known to him. He waylaid 
 his mother in the dining-room at a time when there 
 was no one else about. 
 
 "Why not wait until she can get some things?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Victor," replied Mrs. Baron, holding her head 
 very high, "you're assuming that that extraor- 
 dinary little creature is going to stay here. I as- 
 sure you, she's not. This may be the only chance 
 she'll ever have to place herself in the way of a 
 helpful influence on Sunday. She's going to Sun- 
 day-school to-day." 
 
 "Governess," responded Victor, smiling stead- 
 ily, "if you don't quit getting angry with me I 
 mean to sue for separate maintenance. Mark my 
 words." After which nothing more was said on 
 the subject. 
 
 Victor betook himself to the library, however, 
 0nd indulged in a moment of fidgeting. Breakers 
 were ahead-Hthat was certain, 
 
 It was forcing things, anyway. He took down 
 his Emerson and turned to a passage which his 
 mother long ago had pronounced a tMug holding 
 low heathen sentiments. He read; 
 
 34
 
 A Sunday Morning 
 
 "And why drag this dead weight of a Sunday- 
 school over the whole of Christendom? It is beau- 
 tiful and natural that children should inquire and 
 maturity should teach, but it is time enough to 
 answer questions when they are asked. Do not 
 shut up the young people against their will in a 
 pew and force the children to ask them questions 
 against their will." 
 
 He could not dismiss from his mind the picture 
 of Bonnie May asking questions in her elfin yet 
 penetrating way, and he realized that the answers 
 she would get in that place of ordered forms and 
 conventions might be very far from satisfactory 
 to one of her somewhat fearful frankness and 
 honesty. 
 
 But suddenly he smiled at the pictures he was 
 drawing in his mind. "She seems pretty well able 
 to take care of herself," he concluded. 
 
 He came upon the heaped sections of the news- 
 papers he had examined. That reminded him. 
 The newspapers were not the only source of in- 
 formation nor perhaps the most likely source 
 so far as his immediate needs were concerned. 
 
 No, there was a certain visit he must make that 
 morning. 
 
 A little later he emerged from the mansion and 
 stood for an instant on the steps in the brilliant 
 sunlight. Then he descended the steps and was 
 gone.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 STILL UNCLAIMED 
 
 BARON was on his way to see Thornburg. 
 
 On six days and seven nights Thornburg was 
 one of the busiest men in town. But there was 
 one day in the week when he liked to pose as a 
 man of leisure. From ten or eleven o'clock on 
 Sunday morning, and until the latter part of the 
 afternoon, there were few people about the theatre 
 to disturb him or to claim his attention. And 
 during these hours it was his practise to lean back 
 in the comfortable chair in his private office in the 
 theatre and look through old letters and souvenirs, 
 if there were no callers, or to exchange current 
 gossip or old reminiscences with the people of his 
 profession who dropped in to see him. Usually 
 these were managers or agents who happened to 
 be in town, and sometimes there were veteran 
 players who were retired, or who were temporarily 
 unemployed. And occasionally there were politi- 
 cians who liked to keep on affable terms with the 
 source of free passes. 
 
 When Baron entered the manager's presence he 
 found that usually engaged person quite at liberty. 
 
 The little office was a place which was not with- 
 out its fascination to most people. On the walls 
 
 86
 
 Still Unclaimed 
 
 there were framed photographs of Jefferson as 
 Rip Van Winkle, of Booth as Richard HI, of 
 Modjeska as Portia, and of other notable players. 
 In many cases the pictures bore sprawling auto- 
 graphs across their faces, low enough not to hurt. 
 Between these authentic ornaments there were 
 fanciful sketches of dancing girls in extravagant 
 costumes and postures, and a general ornamenta- 
 tion scheme of masks and foils and armor. 
 
 So complacent and open-minded was Thorn- 
 burg when Baron appeared that the latter came 
 to a swift, seemingly irrelevant conclusion. 
 
 "Nobody has claimed her ! She's going to stay !" 
 were the words that formed themselves in Baron's 
 mind. The dull, monotonous aspects of the old 
 mansion were to be changed. A new voice, like a 
 melody rising above droning chords, was to greet 
 his ears at morning and night. A thing of beauty 
 was to take its place before the background of dull, 
 long-established things. 
 
 No one had come to Thornburg to demand of 
 him the child who had disappeared from his prem- 
 ises Baron could read as much in the manager's 
 expression. Wonderful ! Truly wonderful ! 
 
 "You haven't had any word yet?" he began. 
 
 Thornburg was used to Baron's ways. He had 
 a friendly contempt for the dilettante young man 
 about town and newspaper writer who could have 
 made a place for himself, as everybody agreed, if 
 he had chosen to do so, but who indulged himself 
 
 87
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 by following his own ill-directed bent, merely be- 
 cause he was well, because he was Baron or a 
 Baron. 
 
 "Not a word," he replied, smiling indulgently, 
 as if the matter were really not at all surprising. 
 
 Baron read the other's thought. "But a child 
 like that ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "People are sometimes strange," said Thorn- 
 burg. "Now, if she had been a trained dog, or a 
 cat with an unusual pedigree, or a horse with power 
 to draw loads then she would have been hunted 
 up quick enough. But you see, she's only a child." 
 
 Baron shook his head. He was rejecting all 
 this as inadequate. 
 
 "She's still with you?" continued the manager. 
 
 "Yes. I'm hoping she'll remain with us." 
 
 "She like it there?" 
 
 "Like it?" echoed Baron. He couldn't answer 
 the question. He thought of something more per- 
 tinent to say. "It means that she will have a home 
 ft we can keep her." 
 
 Thornburg nodded slowly. "I don't think any- 
 thing better could happen to her than for you to 
 keep her," he said. "I suppose she'll get the kind 
 of care a little girl of her kind needs. If she's just 
 a waif of the theatre she probably has a lot to learn 
 about oh, about life and real things." 
 
 "Very likely," Baron agreed. He added: "I 
 was hoping you might throw some light on the 
 case as to who she is and where she came from."
 
 Still Unclaimed 
 
 Thornburg shook his head. "No, I couldn't," 
 he said. 
 
 "About her coming to the theatre " 
 
 "A woman brought her to the theatre and asked 
 to be admitted. She belonged to the profession 
 the woman. We usually pass them in if there's 
 any room. There happened to be just one seat 
 left down-stairs in the back row and I told her 
 she could have that. I supposed she would hold 
 the little girl on her lap. I was provoked when I 
 saw she had let her wander up into the box where 
 you were. In fact, I spoke to her about it." 
 
 "And you don't know who the woman was 
 even by reputation?" 
 
 "Oh, there are thousands of such people people 
 who are 'of the profession/ Vaudeville people, 
 circus performers, members of little stock com- 
 panies, third-rate travelling troupes they all ask 
 for free seats." 
 
 Baron reflected. "I suppose," he said at length, 
 "such people are often in financial straits?" 
 
 " My goodness, yes ! Almost always." 
 
 "If she this actress had really wanted to find 
 the child, she surely would have made inquiries 
 here at the theatre before now, wouldn't she?" 
 
 "It would seem so certainly." 
 
 "What I'm getting at is this: It looks a good 
 deal like deliberate desertion, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, I should say so." 
 
 "And that's what I simply can't believe," de- 
 
 89
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 clared Baron. "Still," he added, "under the cir- 
 cumstances, I ought to be justified in not saying 
 anything in assuming that I have a right to keep 
 what has come into my possession?" 
 
 "Well, for the time being, certainly. Of course, 
 there may be developments sooner or later. She 
 must belong to somebody; I mean, she must have 
 a home somewhere." 
 
 "No, she hasn't." 
 
 "But of course you can't be sure of that." 
 
 "I am. She's my authority." 
 
 "You mean she told you that? It was prob- 
 ably a childish fancy or a downright falsehood. 
 You have to take into account all manner of pos- 
 sible circumstances." 
 
 "I think she told me the truth. She doesn't 
 seem fanciful, in that way. She has the most re- 
 markable sort of intelligence of frankness." 
 
 Thornburg's eyes brightened with interest. " "Has 
 she, really?" he asked. There was an interval of 
 silence and then the manager laughed. "It strikes 
 me that you're an odd sort of a chap, Baron," he 
 said. "What was your idea in taking her home 
 a stray child like that?" 
 
 "I don't think it was so very remarkable. She 
 wanted to go with me, for one thing. She seemed 
 quite delighted at the prospect of having a real 
 home." 
 
 The manager turned this statement over in his 
 mind so long that Baron supposed he was thinking 
 
 90
 
 Still Unclaimed 
 
 of something else. He sat, his hands clasped be- 
 hind his head, regarding one of the pictures on the 
 wall, well over Baron's head. Then he aroused 
 himself abruptly. 
 
 "What's your plan regarding her?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know that I've got that far yet. She'll 
 have the usual schooling and the sort of training 
 that is customary. When she's grown Well, 
 it's hard to look far ahead, where a child like that 
 is concerned. Of course, if Miss Barry ever turns 
 up. . . . She would have claims we couldn't ig- 
 nore." 
 
 "Who's Miss Barry?" 
 
 "She's the woman who brought Bonnie May to 
 the theatre. If you know of an actress by that 
 name " 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 " She probably hasn't very much standing. From 
 what Bonnie May said I judge she belongs to that 
 vast army we never hear much about in the 
 cities." 
 
 "It's like this, Baron," said the manager, with 
 the air of a man who hasn't time for useless specula- 
 tions, "I'm thinking, and I suppose you're think- 
 ing, that under the circumstances I ought to as- 
 sume some of the responsibility for a waif who was 
 lost on my premises. I'd want to be fair about it, 
 you know." 
 
 "But I wasn't thinking anything of the kind," 
 declared Baron.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Thornburg frowned impatiently. "She'll be a 
 burden to you, of course," he argued. "And there's 
 clearly my share of the responsibility " 
 
 "I didn't say anything about a burden. The 
 word was yours. Of course I had to take her home 
 with me. Or at least that's the way I felt about it. 
 You simply couldn't turn a child like that over to 
 an orphan asylum, or to the police. You would as 
 readily think of asking some grand dame to turn 
 a handspring as to expect Bonnie May to put on 
 a uniform with a lot of other unclaimed children, 
 and go through the usual order of childish occupa- 
 tions. Somebody has got to look after her hi a dif- 
 ferent way: somebody who understands. But I 
 wouldn't think of her being a burden any more 
 than I would think of pigeons or flowers being a 
 burden." 
 
 Again Thornburg laughed. "Still, most people 
 are pretty willing not to have white elephants 
 thrust upon them." 
 
 Baron regarded him steadily, in silence. There 
 was a sort of threat in that or a prophecy. And 
 there was indicated that attitude of mind which 
 sees no beauty in a generous deed. And these 
 were reflections which Baron did not care to put 
 into words. 
 
 The manager became uncomfortable under that 
 glance. "You see," he explained, "I can't help 
 thinking. ... Is it possible that a little foot- 
 light butterfly will be comfortable very long in a 
 
 92
 
 Still Unclaimed 
 
 home like in a home where everything is is just 
 so?" He flushed a little from the effort to avoid 
 offensive inferences or words. "Won't she be 
 lonesome and out of place after the novelty of the 
 thing passes?" 
 
 Baron liked that. It was frank and honest. "I 
 don't think she'll be lonesome," he declared. 
 "Mother will see that she gets interested in things: 
 in music, probably, or anything she manifests a 
 taste for. She's too bright to feel out of place, if 
 she's helped in the right way." 
 
 "It might work out all right." Thornburg 
 nodded. "I'll tell you," he added, "suppose you 
 let me help with the job." 
 
 "Help!" echoed Baron. "You mean " 
 
 "By writing a little check once a month." 
 
 "That won't be necessary. So far as the ex- 
 pense is concerned that will scarcely be worth 
 considering." 
 
 "Nonsense! You could use it, if only for extra 
 dresses and trinkets. I've no doubt she'll want a 
 lot of things." 
 
 That was exactly like a theatrical man's ideas, 
 Baron thought. But he couldn't tell Thornburg 
 that his mother would be sure to oppose anything 
 that would tend to promote childish vanity, espe- 
 cially in the case of one who was already inclined 
 to overestimate mere appearances. The gewgaws 
 of the average petted and spoiled child would have 
 to give place to simplicity and true childishness. 
 
 93
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Still, he didn't wish to offend Thornburg, whose 
 suggestion had doubtless been based upon a gen- 
 erous impulse. 
 
 "It might be managed," he said. -J' We'll speak 
 of that another time." 
 
 He arose and began to shape a casual exit. 
 "There's nobody now to take their places," he said, 
 indicating the portraits of Jefferson and Booth and 
 the others. 
 
 "Not by a thousand miles," agreed Thornburg. 
 His thoughts seemed to have been transferred eas- 
 ily to the players who were gone. 
 
 But when Baron emerged from the theatre and 
 lost himself in the throng which the fine May fore- 
 noon had attracted from hotels and side streets, 
 his face brightened with the joy which he felt he 
 need no longer conceal. 
 
 "She's ours!" were the words that sang within 
 him. _" We're going to keep her!" 
 
 94
 
 CHAPTER DC 
 A DISAPPOINTING PERFORMANCE 
 
 BARON looked at his watch twice as he climbed 
 the stairs. Yes, the family had had time to return 
 from church; but they had not done so. Mrs. 
 Shepard was busy in the dining-room, but other- 
 wise the house was unoccupied. Silence reigned 
 in the upper regions. 
 
 Thomason, the houseman, was looking impa- 
 tiently down from the upper landing; but Thoma- 
 son didn't count. He was probably hungry. Baron 
 realized that he, too, was hungry. 
 
 He went into the cheerful sitting-room and 
 looked down upon the street, and instantly his at- 
 titude changed. 
 
 There they came! And something was wrong. 
 Oh, plainly, something was wrong. 
 
 Mrs. Baron's head was held high; she was pale; 
 her lips were compressed. There was nothing gra- 
 cious in her carriage. She was marching. 
 
 By her side walked Flora, keeping step with dif- 
 ficulty. She appeared to be fighting off all realiza- 
 tion of her mother's state. 
 
 Mrs. Shepard was no longer present to lend her 
 support to Bonnie May. The faithful servitor had 
 come home immediately after Sunday-school to 
 
 95
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 look after the dinner, and the child walked alone, 
 behind her silent elders. Her whole being radiated 
 defiance. She was apparently taking in every as- 
 pect of the street, but her casual bearing was obvi- 
 ously studied; the determined effort she was making 
 was not to be concealed. 
 
 Baron hurried down-stairs so that he might 
 meet them in the hall, and engineer a temporary 
 dispersement. He was affecting a calm and leisurely 
 demeanor when the door opened and Mrs. Baron, 
 followed by the others, entered. 
 
 There was an ominous silence. Bonnie May 
 caught sight of Baron and approached him with 
 only a partial concealment of eagerness and hurry. 
 
 Mrs. Baron and Flora ascended the stairs: the 
 former leading the way sternly; the latter moving 
 upward with wan cheeks and bowed head. 
 
 Baron led the way into the sitting-room, Bonnie 
 May following. He pretended not to see or to ap- 
 prehend anything unusual. "Well, what do you 
 think of Sunday-school?" he began gayly. 
 
 "I think it's fierce!" This took the form of an 
 explosion. "It wouldn't do even for one-night 
 stands!" 
 
 Baron felt the need of an admonitory attitude. 
 "Bonnie May," he said, "you should have dis- 
 covered that it wasn't a play. It was something real. 
 It's a place where people go to help each other." 
 
 "They certainly need help all right enough." 
 This with a quite unlovely jeering laugh. 
 
 96
 
 A Disappointing Performance 
 
 " I wonder what you mean by that ? " 
 
 "I suppose I meant the same thing you meant 
 yourself." 
 
 Baron paused, frowning. "I meant," he ex- 
 plained patiently, "that they are people who want 
 to be as good as they can, and who want to give 
 one another encouragement." 
 
 The child was conscious of his wish to be con- 
 ciliatory. She tried to restrain herself. "Well," 
 she asked, "if they want to be good, why don't 
 they just be good? What's the use of worrying 
 about it?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it isn't quite so simple a matter as 
 aU that." 
 
 Bonnie May's wrath arose in spite of herself. 
 She was recalling certain indignities. "I don't see 
 anything in it but a bum performance. Do you 
 know what I think they go there for?" 
 
 "That's what I'm trying to find out." 
 
 "I think they go there to watch each other to 
 find out something bad about each other." 
 
 "Bonnie May!" 
 
 "I do! And I've had pretty near enough, too. 
 You asked me and I told you. You're all asking 
 me to do things, and asking me questions; and 
 then if I don't agree with you in every way I'm 
 wrong. That may look all right to you, but it 
 doesn't to me. If I've got to take everything, I 
 mean to be on my way." 
 
 Baron remained silent a full minute. When he 
 
 97
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 spoke again his voice was persuasive, gentle. "I'm 
 anxious to understand your difficulties," he said. 
 "I'm anxious to have you understand ours. I'm 
 sorry I criticised you. I'm sure you mean to be 
 fair." 
 
 She looked at him with a light of gratitude in 
 her eyes, a quiver of emotion passing over her face. 
 She had an intense desire to justify herself at 
 least to him. 
 
 "Do you know what was the first thing they 
 asked me?" 
 
 "Your name, probably." 
 
 "No, Mrs. Shepard told them that. They asked 
 me if I was a good little girl I n 
 
 "But I don't see any harm in that. Why 
 shouldn't they have asked you?" 
 
 "You don't! Do you suppose that I. was going 
 to tell them that I was or that I wasn't? What 
 nonsense! Are you 'a good young man'? How 
 does a question like that sound?" 
 
 Baron pondered. "Well " he suggested. 
 
 "Welt, I wouldn't stand it. I asked her if she 
 was 'a good old woman' and the frowzy old thing 
 stared at me just as ugly ! She walked way down 
 into the parquet without looking back. She'd 
 been grinning when she asked me. I'll bet she 
 won't grin like that very soon again." 
 
 Baron walked to the window and looked out 
 dully, to gain time. 
 
 How extraordinary the child's attitude was ! And 
 98
 
 A Disappointing Performance 
 
 yet. ... He could understand that she might 
 have been the only child in the troupe with which 
 she travelled, and that her older companions, 
 weary of mimicry and make-believe when their 
 work was done, might have employed very frank, 
 mature speech toward each other and their youngp 
 companion. 
 
 He turned away from the window with a sigh. 
 "Won't you take my word for it, Bonnie May, 
 that these people mean well, and that one should 
 speak of them with respect, even if one cannot 
 speak of them with affection?" 
 
 "But they don't mean well. What's the good 
 of stalling?" She turned until her back was toward 
 him, and sat so, her cheek in her hand, and her 
 whole body eloquent of discouragement. 
 
 An instant later she turned toward him with, 
 the first evidence of surrender she had shown. 
 Her chin quivered and her eyes were filled with 
 misery. "Did you tell the man where I was, so 
 they can come for me if they want me?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Here spoke the child, Baron thought. His re- 
 sentment fled instantly. "Truly I did," he as- 
 sured her. "I have been doing everything I could 
 think of to help. I want you to believe that." 
 
 "Oh, I do; but you all put too much on me. 
 I want to go back to where things are real " 
 
 " Real, child ? The theatre, and plays, and make- 
 believe every day?" 
 
 99
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "It's the only thing that's real. You'd know 
 that if you were an artist. It means what's true 
 that's what it means. Do you mean to tell me 
 there's anything real in all the putting on here in 
 this house the way you hide what you mean and 
 what you believe and what you want? Here's 
 where the make-believe is: just a mean make- 
 believe that nothing comes of. The theatre has a 
 make-believe that everybody understands, and so 
 it really isn't a make-believe, and something good 
 and true comes of it." 
 
 Her eyes were flashing. Her hands had been 
 clasped while she spoke until she came to the final 
 clause. Then she thrust her arms forward as if 
 she would grasp the good and true thing which 
 came of the make-believe she had defended. 
 
 When Baron spoke again his words came slowly. 
 " Bonnie May," he said, "I wish that you and I 
 might try, like good friends, to understand each 
 other, and not to say or think anything bitter or 
 unkind. Maybe there will be things I can teach 
 you. I'm sure there are things you can teach me ! 
 And the others ... I honestly believe that when 
 we all get better acquainted we'll love one another 
 truly." 
 
 She hung her head pensively a moment, and 
 then, suddenly, she laughed heartily, ecstatically. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, vaguely troubled. 
 
 "I'm thinking it's certainly a pretty kettle of 
 fish I've got into. That's all." 
 
 100
 
 A Disappointing Performance 
 
 "You know I don't quite understand that." 
 
 "The Sunday-school, I mean, and your mother, 
 and everything. They put me in with a lot of chil- 
 dren" this somewhat scornfully "and a sort of 
 leading lady asked us riddles is that what you call 
 them? One of them was: 'How long did it take 
 to make the world ? ' ' 
 
 "But that wasn't a riddle." 
 
 "Well, whatever it was; and they caught one 
 Smart Alec. She said, ' Forty days and forty nights/ 
 and they all laughed so you could see it was just 
 a catch. As if anybody knew ! That was the only 
 fun I could see to the whole performance, and it 
 sounded like Rube fun at that. One odious little 
 creature looked at my dress a long time. Then she 
 said: 'I've got a new dress.' Another looked at me 
 and sniffed, and sniffed, and sniffed. She wrinkled 
 her nose and lifted her lip every time she sniffed. 
 It was like a kind of signal. Then she said: 'My 
 papa has got a big store, and we've got a horse and 
 buggy.' She sniffed again and looked just as spite- 
 ful! I had to get back at that one. 'Don't cry, 
 little one,' I said. 'Wait until it's a pretty day 
 and I'll come around and take you out in my auto- 
 mobile.' " 
 
 "But you haven't any automobile!" 
 
 "That," with great emphasis, "doesn't make 
 any difference. There's no harm in stringing people 
 of a certain kind." 
 
 "Oh, Bonnie May!" cried Baron reproachfully, 
 101
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 and with quickly restored calm he added: "Surely 
 one should tell the truth !" 
 
 "Yes, one should, if two would. But you can't 
 afford to show your hand to every Bedelia that 
 gets into your troupe. No, you can't," she repeated 
 defiantly, reading the pained look in his eyes. 
 
 Baron knew that he should have expressed his 
 disapproval of such a vagrant philosophy as this; 
 but before he had tune to frame a tactful response 
 the child continued: 
 
 "Then the leading lady turned to me, thinking 
 up another question. I made up my mind to be 
 on hand if I had to sleep hi the wings. 'Why were 
 Adam and Eve driven out of the garden?' was 
 mine. I said: 'Because they couldn't make good!' 
 She looked puzzled, and I patted her on the knee. 
 'You can't put over anything on me,' I said. I 
 think I shouted it. That stopped the whole show 
 for a minute, and an old character man up near 
 the stage got up and said: 'A little less noise, 
 please.' Then your mother came back." (Baron 
 had anticipated this detail.) "She had been taking 
 the leading part in a little sketch up in front." 
 (Teaching her class, Baron reflected, and smiled 
 wryly in spite of himself.) "She had got through 
 with her musical turn, and well, I don't want to 
 talk about her. She told me I must sit still and 
 listen to what the others said. Why? I'd like to 
 know. I couldn't agree with her at all. I told 
 her I was a professional and didn't expect to pick 
 
 102
 
 A Disappointing Performance 
 
 up anything from a lot of amateurs. And then," 
 she added dejectedly, "the trouble began." 
 
 Baron groaned. He had hoped the worst had 
 been told. What hi the world was there to fol- 
 low? 
 
 "Your mother," resumed Bonnie May, "spoke 
 to the woman who had been asking questions. 
 She said so that the children could hear every 
 word 'She's a poor little thing who's had no 
 bringing up. She'll have to learn how to behave.' ' 
 
 She hung her head in shame at the recollection 
 of this. For the moment she seemed unwilling to 
 proceed. 
 
 "And what happened then?" Baron asked per- 
 suasively. 
 
 "Oh I was getting rattled! She had no right 
 to work in a line like that." 
 
 "But what did you do?" 
 
 "I told her. . . . You know I am sorry, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Maybe you'd rather not tell me?" 
 
 "You'd better know. I told her that when it 
 came to doing the nasty stuff I had seen pupils 
 from the dramatic schools that looked like head- 
 liners compared with her." 
 
 Baron stiffened. "Goodness! You couldn't 
 have said that!" 
 
 "Yes, I did. And I didn't have to wait to hear 
 from any prompter, either. And she you know 
 she won't take anything. The way she looked ! 
 
 103
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 She said she was glad to say she didn't have any 
 idea what I was talking about. Just a stall, you 
 know. Oh, these good people ! She called Flora 
 and said I was to be taken into a corner, and that 
 I was to sit there until we went home. And Flora 
 led me into a corner and the others looked back 
 as if they were afraid of me. They all sang after 
 a while a kind of ensemble affair. Flora held the 
 music over and invited me to sing. I told her 
 musical turns were not in my line. She just kept 
 on holding the music for me honestly, she's the 
 dearest thing ! and singing herself. It was a crime, 
 the noise she made. Isn't it awful when people 
 try to sing and can't ? As if they had to. Why do 
 they do it? I felt like screaming to her to stop. 
 But she looked as if she might be dreaming, and 
 I thought if anybody could dream in that terrible 
 place it would be a crime to wake them, even if 
 they did make a noise. They had an intermission, 
 and then a man down in front delivered a mono- 
 logue. . . . Oh, me ! Talk about the moving- 
 picture shows ! Why, they're artistic. . . ." 
 
 What, Baron wondered, was one to say to a 
 child who talked in such a fashion? 
 
 Nothing nothing at all. He groaned. Then, 
 to his great relief, Flora appeared. 
 
 "Dinner is ready," she said, standing in the 
 doorway. There was a flush on her cheeks and an 
 odd smile on her lips. 
 
 Baron took Bonnie May by the hand he could 
 104
 
 A Disappointing Performance 
 
 not quite understand the impulse which prompted 
 him to do so and led her into the dining-room. 
 
 He saw that she bore her face aloft, with a pain- 
 ful effort at unconcern. He was glad that she was 
 given a place next to him, with the elder Baron on 
 her right, and Flora across the table from her. 
 
 He was dismayed to note that his mother was 
 quite beside herself. He had expected a certain 
 amount of irritation, of chagrin, but not this omi- 
 nous, pallid silence. She avoided her son's eyes, and 
 this meant, of course, that her wrath would sooner 
 or later be visited upon his head. 
 
 He sighed with discouragement. He realized 
 sadly that his mother's heaviest crosses had always 
 come to her from such trivial causes ! She was 
 oddly childish just as Bonnie May was strangely 
 unchildlike. Still, she had all the traditions of 
 propriety, of a rule-made demeanor, behind her. 
 Strange that she could not have risen to the dif- 
 ficulty that had confronted her, and emerged from 
 a petty predicament without so much of loss ! 
 
 The meal progressed in a constrained silence. 
 Bonnie May concerned herself with her napkin; 
 she admired the design on the china; she appeared 
 to appraise the dishes with the care of an epicure. 
 And at last, unfortunately, she spoke. 
 
 "Don't you think, Mr. Baron" to the master 
 of the house "that it is a pretty custom to con- 
 verse while at table?" 
 
 Mr. Baron coughed. He was keenly aware that
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 something had gone wrong; he was shrewd enough 
 to surmise that Bonnie May had offended. But 
 he was in the position of the passenger below decks 
 who senses an abnormal atmosphere but who is 
 unadvised as to the nature of the storm. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm not a very reliable hand at 
 small talk," he said guardedly. "I think my idea 
 is that you ought to talk when you have something 
 to say." 
 
 "Very good!" agreed Bonnie May, nodding 
 brightly. She patted her lips daintily with the cor- 
 ner of her napkin. "Only it seems like chickens 
 eating when you don't talk. The noises make you 
 nervous. I should think anything would get by, 
 even if you talked about the weather. Otherwise 
 it seems just like machinery at work. Rather 
 messy machinery, too." 
 
 Baron seized an oar. "Perhaps when people are 
 thoughtful, or possibly troubled, it is a mark of 
 good taste not to try to draw them into a conversa- 
 tion." He said this airily, as if it could not possibly 
 apply to the present occasion. 
 
 "A very good idea!" admitted Bonnie May, 
 quite obviously playing the part of one who makes 
 of conversation a fine art. "But isn't it also true 
 that people who are troubled ought to hide it, for 
 the sake of others, and not be a sort of oh, a wet 
 blanket?" 
 
 The elder Baron's eyes twinkled in a small, hid- 
 den way, and Flora tried to smile. There was 
 
 106
 
 A Disappointing Performance 
 
 something quite hopefully audacious in the child's 
 behavior. 
 
 But Mrs. Baron stiffened and stared. "Good 
 gracious!" she exclaimed. After which she stirred 
 her coffee with so much vigor that a little of it ran 
 over into the saucer, and even the spotless table- 
 cloth was menaced. 
 
 Baron undertook a somewhat sterner strategy. 
 He felt that he really must not permit the guest to 
 add to her offenses against his mother. 
 
 "It might be sensible not to talk too much until 
 a closer acquaintance is formed," he suggested with 
 something of finality in his tone. 
 
 But Bonnie May was not to be checked. "A 
 very good thought, too," she admitted, "but you 
 can't get better acquainted without exchanging 
 ideas and of course talking is the only way." 
 
 Baron leaned back in his chair with a movement 
 resembling a collapse. Hadn't Thornburg said 
 something about a white elephant? 
 
 "Wouldn't it be fine if everybody wore a badge, 
 or something, so that you would know just how 
 they wanted to be taken?" A meticulous enthu- 
 siasm was becoming apparent. Mrs. Baron was 
 sitting very erect a sophisticated, scornful au- 
 dience, as she seemed to Bonnie May. 
 
 "Absurd!" was Baron's comment. 
 
 "Well, I don't know. You pretty near know 
 without any badges. You can tell the the mixers, 
 and the highbrows. I mean when they are the real 
 
 107
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 thing people worth while. I would know you for 
 a mixer easy enough. I don't mean careless, you 
 know; but willing to loosen up a little if people 
 went at you in the right way. And Flora would 
 be a mixer, too a nice, friendly mixer, as long as 
 people behaved." Here she turned with a heroic, 
 friendy appeal to Mrs. Baron. "And Mrs. Baron 
 would be one of the fine, sure-enough highbrows." 
 
 "I think," began Mrs. Baron, suddenly pos- 
 sessed of an ominous calm; but the guest made an 
 earnest plea. 
 
 "Oh, please let me finish !" she begged. 
 
 "Very well," said Mrs. Baron, "you may 
 finish." 
 
 "You know I understand about your part in 
 that entertainment this morning. You don't be- 
 long in that crowd. It's like the queen who kissed 
 the soldier. She was high enough up to do it and 
 get away with it." She placed her elbows on the 
 table and beamed upon Mrs. Baron with a look so 
 sweetly taunting, and so obviously conciliatory, 
 that the others dared to hope the very audacity 
 of it would succeed. "Now don't deny," she con- 
 tinued, shaking an accusing finger at Mrs. Baron 
 and smiling angelically, "that you're just a nice, 
 sure-enough, first-class highbrow!" 
 
 It was done with such innocent intention, and 
 with so much skill, that all the members of Mrs. 
 Baron's family turned their faces toward her smil- 
 ingly, appealingly, inquiringly. 
 
 108
 
 A Disappointing Performance 
 
 But alas! Mrs. Baron failed to rise to the oc- 
 casion. She was being ridiculed by a child! 
 and her children and her husband were countenanc- 
 ing the outrage. Her composure vanished again. 
 
 She pushed her chair back from the table angrily. 
 Her napkin fell to the floor; she grasped the edge 
 of the table with both hands and stared at Bonnie 
 May in a towering rage. 
 
 "You little wretch !" she cried. "You impudent, 
 ungrateful little wretch! You you brand from 
 the burning!" 
 
 She hurried from the room. In her blind anger 
 she bumped her shoulder against the door as she 
 went out, the little accident robbing her exit of 
 the last vestige of dignity. 
 
 Bonnie May was horrified, crushed. She sat, 
 pale and appalled, her eyes fixed on the doorway 
 through which Mrs. Baron had vanished. 
 
 Then she brought her hands together sharply 
 and uttered a single word: 
 
 "Hoo-ray!" 
 
 Every member of the family was electrified. 
 
 "Father!" expostulated Flora. 
 
 "Victor!" exclaimed the elder Baron. 
 
 And Baron, shaking his head sadly, murmured: 
 
 " Bonnie May ! Bonnie May ! " 
 
 109
 
 CHAPTER X 
 THE WHITE ELEPHANT 
 
 MRS. BARON "took to her room," as the saying is. 
 For an hour or more she might have been, to all 
 intents and purposes, in some far country. 
 
 She left an awed silence behind her. 
 
 "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and talk to 
 Mrs. Shepard a while," said Bonnie May, not with- 
 out significance. The atmosphere had become too 
 rarefied for her. She was turning from an inimical 
 clan. She was obeying that undying instinct which 
 impelled the cavemen of old to get their backs 
 toward a wall. 
 
 Baron, Sr., prepared to go out. He turned to 
 Victor and Flora as he took his leave, and his whole 
 being twinkled quietly. He seemed to be saying: 
 "Don't ask me!" 
 
 Flora stole up to her mother's room. She tapped 
 at the door affectionately if one can tap at a door 
 affectionately. 
 
 A voice muffled by pillows was heard. "Making 
 hay," it seemed to say. Flora frowned in perplex- 
 ity. Then her brow cleared and she smiled wist- 
 fully. "Oh!" she interpreted, " 'Go away.' " 
 
 She went to Victor again, 
 no
 
 The White Elephant 
 
 "I suppose she'll have to go," she said, almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 "Oh, yes, certainly; yes, she'll have to go," 
 agreed Victor firmly. 
 
 "And yet I can't say it's her fault." 
 
 "You might say it's her misfortune." 
 
 "Yes. . . . Isn't she wonderful !" 
 
 "Oh, well, if two people simply can't understand 
 each other, that's all there is to it." 
 
 "But she understands. She just talks too much. 
 She won't realize that she's only a child." 
 
 "Oh, what's the use!" exclaimed Baron. He 
 thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled through 
 the house, up into the library. 
 
 He took down a copy of "Diana of the Cross- 
 ways," and opened it at random, staring darkly 
 at words which the late Mr. Meredith never wrote: 
 
 "Why couldn't she have made allowances? Why 
 couldn't she have overlooked things which plainly 
 weren't meant to be the least offensive?" 
 
 Obscurities, perhaps, but what does one expect 
 of Meredith ? 
 
 He meditated long and dejectedly. And then he 
 heard his mother in the sitting-room. 
 
 He put aside his book and assumed a light, un- 
 troubled air. "Better have it out now," he re- 
 flected, as he opened the door and went into the 
 sitting-room. 
 
 "Where is the Queen of Sheba?" asked Mrs. 
 Baron. 
 
 in
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Baron dropped into a chair. '' You know I'm 
 awfully sorry, mother," he said. There was a 
 singular lack of real repentance in his tone. 
 
 "I don't doubt that. Still, you might have 
 taken me into your confidence before you brought 
 that little limb of Satan into the house. I never 
 heard of such a child. Never." 
 
 "But you know what the circumstances 
 were ' 
 
 "Don't go into that again. I know that you 
 brought her here, and that there wasn't any excuse 
 for such a foolish action." 
 
 "But, mother!" Baron's face was heavy with 
 perplexity. "She's such a little thing! She hasn't 
 got anybody to turn to when she's in trouble. My 
 goodness! I think she's done nobly not whim- 
 pering once since she came into the house. She's 
 probably rattled ! How would you or I behave if 
 we were in her shoes?" 
 
 Mrs. Baron's eyebrows steadily mounted. "The 
 point is, we're not in the slightest degree responsible 
 for her. I want to know how we're going to get 
 rid of her." 
 
 Baron had taken a chair directly in front of his 
 mother. Now he arose and paced the floor. When 
 he spoke his tone was crisp almost to sharpness. 
 
 "It isn't any more difficult now than it was yes- 
 terday," he said. "I can turn her over to the 
 police." 
 
 Something in his manner startled his mother. 
 112
 
 The White Elephant 
 
 She flushed quickly. "That's just like you," she 
 protested. "What do you suppose people would 
 say if we turned a motherless child over to the 
 police? You ought to see that you've forced a 
 responsibility on me ! " 
 
 "Well, I should think it would be a question of 
 what your own conscience says. As for 'people,' 
 I don't see why anybody need know anything 
 about it." 
 
 "And the newspapers and everything? Of course 
 they would everything." 
 
 "I could ask Thornburg to take her. He offered 
 to help. I have an idea he'd be only too glad to 
 have her." 
 
 "The theatre man yes. And he'd dress her up 
 in a fancy-ball costume, and encourage her in her 
 brazen ways, and she'd be utterly shameless by 
 the time she got to be a young woman." 
 
 Baron sat down again with decision. "Mother, 
 don't!" he exclaimed. "Thornburg isn't that 
 kind at all. He'd he'd probably try to get at her 
 point of view now and then, and he might allow 
 her to have certain liberties. I think he's broad 
 enough to want her to be good without insisting 
 upon her being miserable ! " 
 
 "Victor Baron!" warned his mother, and then 
 she added with decision: "Then you'd better get 
 him to take her and the sooner the better." 
 
 "That will be all right. To-morrow. I'll call 
 on him at his office to-morrow. I've never met
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 his family. I'd consider it an intrusion to go to 
 his house to-day, whether he did or not." 
 
 This, of course, was spoken disagreeably, and 
 Mrs. Baron resented it. "You're very obliging, 
 I'm sure," she said. "But after what I've gone 
 through I've no doubt I can wait until to-morrow." 
 
 "No, it's not that she has disappointed me," 
 responded Baron to a question by Thornburg the 
 next morning. 
 
 They were sitting in the manager's office, and 
 Baron had realized too late that he should have 
 waited until after luncheon, or for some other more 
 auspicious occasion, to have a confidential talk 
 with Thornburg. There were frequent interrup- 
 tions, and the manager had his mind upon the com- 
 plicated business of amusement purveying, rather 
 than upon the welfare of a waif who, as he con- 
 ceived it, had become the hobby of a somewhat 
 eccentric young man. A special rehearsal was in 
 progress in the theatre, and the voice of the stage- 
 manager, lifted in anger, occasionally reached 
 them. It was a warm morning, and many doors 
 were open. 
 
 "The fact is," Baron" resumed, "I didn't fore- 
 see the the complications. My mother has taken 
 them into account, and it's her decision, rather 
 than mine, that we ought to give her up." 
 
 Thornburg turned hurriedly to examine, and 
 then to approve, the underline for a gorgeous poster 
 
 114
 
 The White Elephant 
 
 of highly impressionistic design, which one of his 
 employees had placed before him. When he turned 
 to Baron again he presented the appearance of one 
 who has lost the thread of a conversation. 
 
 "We were saying oh, yes. You've got enough 
 of of what's her name. Well, what's your im- 
 pression of her, now that you've had time to look 
 her over?" 
 
 "I haven't changed my mind at all. I like her." 
 
 "The family made a row?" 
 
 Baron answered evasively. "It isn't quite a, 
 question of liking. It's something like trying to 
 keep a canary in a suitcase, or putting a lamb or 
 a kitten into harness." 
 
 Thornburg smiled. "Tell me just how she fails 
 to square with the the domestic virtues," he said. 
 
 "Her way of saying things her views she is 
 so wholly unconventional," said Baron haltingly. 
 "She doesn't stand in awe of her superiors. She 
 expresses her ideas with well, with perfect liberty. 
 You know children aren't supposed to be like that. 
 At least my mother takes that view of the case." 
 
 He so plainly had little or no sympathy with the 
 argument he made that Thornburg looked at him 
 keenly. 
 
 "I see. She scratches the paint off!" interpreted 
 the manager. He smiled upon Baron exultingly. 
 
 "You might put it so," agreed Baron, to whom 
 the words were highly offensive. What right had 
 Thornburg to speak contemptuously of the things
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 which his family and their kind represented? 
 He proceeded coldly. "I understood that you 
 felt some measure of responsibility. I thought 
 perhaps you might be willing to take her, in case 
 we decided it would be difficult for us to keep 
 her." 
 
 The manager pretended not to note the aloof- 
 ness of the other's tone. "Now, if it were a matter 
 of expense " he began. 
 
 "It isn't. She doesn't seem at home with us. I 
 think that states the whole case." 
 
 "How could she feel at home in the short time 
 she's been with you? " 
 
 "Then I might put it this way: She doesn't 
 seem congenial." 
 
 "Of course that's different. That seems to leave 
 me out, as near as I can see." 
 
 "You mean," said Baron, "you wouldn't care 
 to assume the responsibility for her?" 
 
 "Why should I?" demanded Thornburg bluntly. 
 He glared at Baron resentfully. 
 
 "You're quite right, certainly. I seem to have 
 had the impression " 
 
 "I have an idea she's doing better with you 
 than she would anywhere else, anyway," continued 
 Thornburg in milder tones. "Why not give her 
 her place and make her stay in it? I can't under- 
 stand a family of grown people throwing up their 
 hands to a baby!" 
 
 "I merely wanted to get your views," said Baron 
 116
 
 The White Elephant 
 
 stiffly as he rose to go. "I didn't care to send for 
 the police until " 
 
 Thornburg got up, too. "Don't understand that 
 I wash my hands of her," he hastened to say. "It 
 might not hurt me any for the public to know that 
 I didn't do anything, under the circumstances, 
 but it would certainly be a boost for me to have 
 it known that I went out of my way to do a good 
 deed. Of course if you won't keep her " 
 
 Baron turned and looked at him and waited. 
 
 "Look here, Baron, I'm going to be frank with 
 you. When you took her home, I was sore at you. 
 Especially after you told me something about her. 
 I like them children, I mean. You had taken 
 her off my premises. I thought about the big house 
 I've got, and not a child in it, and never to be, and 
 I figured I might as well have taken her myself. 
 But there's difficulties." His expression became 
 troubled. "Once before I tried to take a child into 
 the house and Mrs. Thornburg objected. It was 
 my own child, too." He paused. "You know I've 
 been married twice." 
 
 Baron's thoughts went back a few years to the 
 somewhat unpleasant story of Thornburg's divorce 
 from an actress with whom he had spent only a 
 little more than one troubled year. The facts had 
 been public property. He made no reply. 
 
 Thornburg continued: "I'm in doubt as to how 
 my wife would look at it if I suggested that I'd 
 like to bring this waif home. Of course, it's just 
 
 117
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 possible she might not want to take a child of mine, 
 and still be willing to take in some outsider. You 
 know what strange creatures women are." 
 
 Baron waited. Was Thornburg being quite frank 
 with him at last? 
 
 "You see the difficulty. The the wife is likely 
 to suspect that Bonnie May is the same little girl 
 I wanted to bring home before that she's mine. 
 She never saw the little daughter. I'd have to be 
 careful not to make her suspicious." 
 
 "But the circumstances ... I don't see how 
 she could suspect anything," argued Baron. 
 
 "Not if I don't seem too much interested. That's 
 the point. I'll tell you, Baron you come out and 
 see us. Me and my wife. Come to-night. State 
 the case to us together. Tell the plain truth. Ex- 
 plain how you got hold of Bonnie May, and tell 
 my wife your people have changed their minds. 
 That ought to make the thing clear enough." 
 
 Baron, homeward bound, marvelled at Thorn- 
 burg. It seemed strange that a crude, strong man 
 should feel obliged to shape his deeds to please 
 an ungracious, suspicious wife. He felt sorry for 
 him, too. He seemed to be one of those blunderers 
 whose dealings with women are always bewildering, 
 haphazard experiments. 
 
 He had promised to call that evening to lend 
 his aid to the manager. It was the sensible thing 
 to do, of course. They had to get rid of Bonnie 
 May. Nothing was to be gained by debating that 
 point any further. And yet. . . . 
 
 118
 
 The White Elephant 
 
 When he reached home he was hoping that his 
 mother might, on some ground or other, have 
 changed her mind. 
 
 He speedily learned that she had done nothing 
 of the kind. 
 
 Indeed, matters were a little more at cross-pur- 
 poses than they had been the night before. Mrs. 
 Baron had tried again to make a dress for the 
 fastidious guest, accepting certain of Flora's sug- 
 gestions, and the result of the experiment hadn't 
 been at all gratifying. 
 
 Baron received the first report of the matter 
 from Bonnie May, who was waiting for him at the 
 foot of the stairs when he entered the house. 
 
 "You will please make no unkind remarks about 
 my new dress," she began, assuming the attitude 
 of a fencer, and slowly turning around. 
 
 The subject and the child's frivolous manner 
 irritated Baron. "Really, I think it's very pretty 
 and suitable," he said. 
 
 "Not at all. It's neither pretty nor suitable 
 though both words mean about the same thing, 
 when it comes to a dress. But it's a great improve- 
 ment on that first thing. I told your mother that. 
 I told her I'd wear it until I got something better." 
 
 Baron sighed. "What did she say to that?" 
 
 "She was offended, of course. But what was I 
 to do? I can't see that I'm to blame." 
 
 "But can't you see that mother is doing the best 
 she can for you, and that you ought to be grate- 
 ful?" 
 
 119
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "I see what you mean. But I believe in having 
 an understanding from the beginning. She's got 
 her ideas, and I've got mine. She believes you're 
 Satan's if you look pretty or something like that. 
 And I believe you ought to be Satan's if you don't." 
 
 "But you do look pretty." Baron spoke the 
 last word ungraciously. He was trying to believe 
 he would not care much longer what turn affairs 
 took that he would have forgotten the whole 
 thing in another day or two. 
 
 He found his mother up-stairs. 
 
 "Well any change for the better?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know. That depends entirely 
 upon what arrangements you have made." 
 
 "I think Thornburg will take her. He's got to 
 do a little planning." 
 
 "People sometimes do before they bring strange 
 children into their houses," Mrs. Baron retorted. 
 
 Baron realized that his mother was becoming 
 more successful with her sarcasm. He passed into 
 the library. A mischievous impulse seized him the 
 fruit of that last fling of his mother's. He called 
 back over his shoulder. "If the perverse little 
 thing is quite unendurable, you might lock her up 
 in the attic and feed her on bread and water until 
 she leaves." 
 
 Mrs. Baron stared after him, dumfounded. 
 "I'll do nothing of the sort !" she exclaimed. "She 
 shall not be treated unkindly, as you ought to 
 know. We owe that much to ourselves." 
 
 1 20
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HOW A CONVEYANCE CAME FOR BONNIE MAY 
 AND HOW IT WENT AWAY 
 
 TRUE to his promise, Baron set aside that evening 
 to call on the Thornburgs. 
 
 As he emerged from the vestibule and stood for 
 a moment on the top step he noted that the familiar 
 conflict between the departing daylight and the long 
 files of street-lamps up and down the avenue was 
 being waged. In the country, no doubt, this hour 
 would be regarded as a part of the day; but in the 
 city it was being drawn ruthlessly into the maw of 
 night. There was never any twilight on the avenue. 
 
 Already countless thousands of people had had 
 dinner, and were thronging the avenue in that 
 restless march which is called the pursuit of plea- 
 sure. 
 
 He slipped into the human current and disap- 
 peared just a moment too soon to observe that an 
 automobile swerved out from its course and drew 
 up in front of the mansion. 
 
 A youthful-looking old lady with snowy hair 
 and with small, neatly gloved hands, pushed open 
 the door and emerged. With the manner of one 
 who repeats a request she paused and turned. 
 
 121
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Do come in, Colonel," she called into the 
 shadowy recesses of the car. 
 
 A gray, imposing-appearing man with a good 
 deal of vitality still showing in his eyes and com- 
 plexion smiled back at her inscrutably. "Go on," 
 he said, tucking his cigar beneath the grizzled 
 stubble on his upper lip, and bringing his hand 
 down with a large gesture of leisurely contentment. 
 "You'll be all right. I don't mind waiting." 
 
 And Mrs. Harrod proceeded alone to make her 
 call. 
 
 By the most casual chance Mrs. Baron was 
 standing at her sitting-room window when the car 
 stopped before the house, and when she perceived 
 that it was Mrs. Harrod Amelia Harrod, as she 
 thought of her who was crossing the sidewalk, 
 she underwent a very remarkable transformation. 
 
 So complete a transformation, indeed, that Bon- 
 nie May, who was somewhat covertly observing 
 her, sprang softly to her feet and became all atten- 
 tion. 
 
 Mrs. Baron's face flushed the child could see 
 the heightened color in one cheek and her whole 
 attitude expressed an unwonted eagerness, a child- 
 ish delight. 
 
 The truth was that Mrs. Harrod was one of the 
 old friends who had seemed to Mrs. Baron to be 
 of the deserters one whose revised visiting list 
 did not include the Barons. And they had been 
 girls together, and intimates throughout their 
 
 122
 
 How a Conveyance Came 
 
 married lives until the neighborhood had moved 
 away, so to speak, and the Barons had remained. 
 
 It is true that, despite Mrs. Baron's fancies, 
 Mrs. Harrod had remained a fond and loyal friend, 
 though she had reached an age when social obliga- 
 tions, in their more trivial forms, were not as easily 
 met as they had been in earlier years. And it may 
 also be true that something of constraint had arisen 
 between the two during the past year or so, owing 
 to Mrs. Baron's belief that she was being studiously 
 neglected, and to Mrs. Harrod's fear that her old 
 friend was growing old ungracefully and unhappily. 
 
 Then, too, the Harrods had money. Colonel 
 Harrod had never permitted his family's social 
 standing to interfere with his money-making. On 
 the contrary. The Barons were unable to say of 
 the Harrods: "Oh, yes, they have money" as 
 they said of a good many other families. For the 
 Harrods had everything else, too. 
 
 "Oh, it's Amelia!" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, with- 
 drawing her eyes from the street. She gave herself 
 a quick, critical survey, and put her hands to her 
 hair, and hurried toward her room in a state of de- 
 lighted agitation. 
 
 She had not given a thought to Bonnie May. 
 She did not know that the child slipped eagerly 
 from the room and hurried down the stairs. 
 
 Bonnie May was, indeed, greatly in need of a 
 diversion of some sort. Not a word had been said 
 to her touching the clash that had occurred at the 
 
 123
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 table during the Sunday dinner. She did not know 
 that the machinery necessary to her remoral from 
 the mansion had been set in motion; but she had 
 a vague sense of a sort of rising inflection in the at- 
 mosphere, as if necessary adjustments were in the 
 making. Perhaps her state of mind was a good deal 
 like that of a sailor who voyages in waters which 
 are known to be mined. 
 
 However, she liked to go to the door to admit 
 visitors, in any case. There may have been, latent 
 in her nature, a stong housekeeping instinct. Or, 
 perhaps, there seemed a certain form of drama in 
 opening the door to persons unknown in meeting, 
 in this manner, persons who were for the time 
 being her "opposites." She assured herself that 
 she was saving Mrs. Shepard from the trouble of 
 responding from the kitchen; though she realized 
 clearly enough that she was actuated partly by a 
 love of excitement, of encounters with various 
 types of human beings. 
 
 On the present occasion she had opened the door 
 and stepped aside, smiling, before Mrs. Harrod had 
 had time to touch the bell. 
 
 "Come in," she said. And when the visitor had 
 entered she closed the door softly. "Will you wait 
 until I make a light?" she asked. "I'm afraid 
 we've all forgotten about the light." The lower 
 rooms had become quite gloomy. 
 
 She had climbed upon a chair in the drawing- 
 room, and touched a match to the gas-burner before 
 
 124
 
 How a Conveyance Came 
 
 she could be questioned or assisted, and for the 
 moment the caller was only thinking how peculiar 
 it was that the Barons went on relying upon gas, 
 when electricity was so much more convenient. 
 
 "Please have a seat," Bonnie May added, "while 
 I call Mrs, Baron." She turned toward the hall. 
 "Shall I say who it is?" she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Harrod had not taken a seat. When the 
 light filled the room child and woman confronted 
 each other, the child deferential, the woman smil- 
 ing with an odd sort of tenderness. 
 
 "Who are you?" asked the visitor. Her eyes 
 were beaming; the curve of her lips was like a 
 declaration of love. 
 
 "I'm Bonnie May." The child advanced and 
 held out her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Harrod pondered. "You're not a rela- 
 tive?" 
 
 "Oh, no. A guest, I think. Nothing more 
 than that." 
 
 Mrs. Harrod drew a chair toward her without 
 removing her eyes from the child's face. "Do 
 sit down a minute and talk to me," she said. "We 
 can let Mrs. Baron know afterward. A guest? 
 But you don't visit here often?" 
 
 "This is my first visit. You see, I have so little 
 time for visiting. I happen not to have any any 
 other engagement just now. I was very glad to 
 come here for for a while." 
 
 "You haven't known the Barons long, then?" 
 
 125
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "In a way, no. But you know you feel you've 
 always known really lovely people. Don't you 
 feel that way?" She inclined her head a little; 
 her lips were slightly parted; her color arose. She 
 was trying very earnestly to meet this impressive 
 person upon an equal footing. 
 
 "I think you're quite right. And how did you 
 meet them? I hope you don't mind my asking 
 questions?" 
 
 "Not in the least. I met Mr. Victor at a a 
 kind of reception he was attending. He was lovely 
 to me. He asked me to meet his mother." 
 
 "How simple! And so you called?" 
 
 "Yes. That is, Mr. Victor came and and 
 brought me. It was much pleasanter, his bringing 
 me." 
 
 She had wriggled up into a chair and was keeping 
 clear, earnest eyes upon the visitor. She was re- 
 calling Mrs. Baron's agitation, and she was draw- 
 ing conclusions which were very far from being 
 wholly wrong. 
 
 "I think Victor's a charming young gentleman," 
 declared Mrs. Harrod. "He's always doing some- 
 thing nice." 
 
 "Yes," responded Bonnie May. She had ob- 
 served that the visitor paused before she said 
 "nice." Her eyes were alertly studying Mrs. 
 Harrod's face. 
 
 "And your name is Bonnie May. Is that the 
 
 full name, or " 
 
 126
 
 How a Conveyance Came 
 
 "Yes, that's the full name." 
 
 Mrs. Harrod pondered. "You're not of the 
 Prof. Mays, are you?" 
 
 "Why, I'm of of professional people. I'm not 
 sure I'm of the Mays you're thinking about." She 
 edged herself from her chair uneasily. "I hope I 
 haven't forgotten myself," she added. "I'm sure 
 I should have let Mrs. Baron know you are here. 
 I think you didn't say what the name is?" 
 
 "I'm Mrs. Harrod. I hope you'll remember. I 
 would be glad if you'd be a friend of mine, too." 
 
 The child's dilemma, whatever it had been, was 
 past. She smiled almost radiantly. "I'm very 
 glad to have met you, Mrs. Harrod," she said. 
 She advanced and extended her hand again. "I 
 truly hope I'll have the pleasure of meeting you 
 again." 
 
 Then she was off up the stairs, walking sedately. 
 It had meant much to her that this nice woman, 
 who was clearly not of the profession, had talked 
 to her without patronizing her, without "talking 
 down" to her. 
 
 A strange timidity overwhelmed her when she 
 appeared at Mrs. Baron's door. "It's Mrs. Har- 
 rod," she said, and there was a slight catch in her 
 voice. "I mean, Mrs. Harrod has called. I let 
 her in." 
 
 Mrs. Baron, standing in her doorway, was fixing 
 an old-fashioned brooch in place. She flushed and 
 there was swift mistrust in her eyes. "Oh!" she 
 
 127
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 cried weakly. The sound was almost like a moan. 
 "I thought Mrs. Shepard- 
 
 "I didn't tell her I was I didn't tell her who I 
 was. I thought you would rather I didn't. I was 
 just nice to her, and she was nice to me." 
 
 She hurried away, then, because she wanted to 
 be by herself. For some reason which she could 
 not understand tears were beginning to start from 
 her eyes. Mrs. Baron had not been angry, this 
 time. She had seemed to be ashamed ! 
 
 She did not know that the old gentlewoman 
 looked after her with a startled, almost guilty ex- 
 pression which gave place to swift contrition and 
 tenderness. 
 
 Mrs. Baron did not descend the stairs. She was 
 about to do so when Mrs. Harrod appeared in the 
 lower hall. 
 
 "Don't come down!" called the latter. "I mean 
 to have my visit with you in your sitting-room." 
 She was climbing the stairs. "I don't intend to 
 be treated like a stranger, even if I haven't been 
 able to come for such a long time." Shadows and 
 restraints seemed to be vanishing utterly before 
 that advancing friendly presence. And at the top 
 of the flight of stairs she drew a deep breath and 
 exclaimed: 
 
 "Emily Boone, who is that child?" She took 
 both Mrs. Baron's hands and kissed her. "I told 
 the colonel I simply wouldn't go by without stop-* 
 ping. He had an idea we ought to go to see 
 
 128
 
 How a Conveyance Came 
 
 what's the name of the play? I can't remember. 
 It gave me a chance to stop. I seem never to have 
 the opportunity any more. But do tell me. About 
 the child, I mean. Do you know, I've never seen 
 such a perfect little human being in my life ! She's 
 so lovely, and so honest, and so unspoiled. Who is 
 she?" 
 
 Mrs. Baron felt many waters lift and pass. Bon- 
 nie May hadn't done anything scandalous, evidently. 
 And here was her old friend as expansive, as cheer- 
 fully outspoken as in the days of long ago. 
 
 She found herself responding happily, lightly. 
 
 "A little protegee of Victor's," she said. "You 
 know what a discoverer he is?" They had entered 
 the sitting-room. Mrs. Baron was thinking again 
 how good it was to have the old bond restored, the 
 old friend's voice awaking a thousand pleasant 
 memories. 
 
 But as Mrs. Harrod took a seat she leaned for- 
 ward without a pause. "Now do tell me about 
 that that cherub of a child," she said. 
 
 In the meantime, Victor Baron was experiencing 
 something like a surprise to discover that Thorn- 
 burg, the manager, seemed a new, a different, sort 
 of person, now that he was in his own home. He 
 had quite the air of well, there was only one word 
 for it, Baron supposed a gentleman. 
 
 The Thornburg home was quite as nice, even in 
 the indefinable ways that count most, as any home 
 Baron was acquainted with. There was an impres- 
 
 129
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 sion of elegance but not too much elegance in 
 the large reception-room. There was a general im- 
 pression of softly limited illumination, of fine yet 
 simple furniture. The walls had a kind of pleasant 
 individuality, by reason of the fact that they were 
 sparsely yet attractively ornamented. 
 
 A grandfather's clock imparted homeliness to 
 one end of the room; there was a restful suggestion 
 in the broad fireplace in which an enormous fern 
 had been installed. Baron's glance also took in 
 a grand piano of a quietly subdued finish. 
 
 Mrs. Thornburg alone seemed in some odd way 
 out of harmony with the fine, cordial picture in 
 which Baron found her. She was a frail, wistful 
 woman, and because her body was ailing, her mind, 
 too as Baron speedily discovered was not of the 
 sound, cheerful texture of her surroundings. 
 
 "Ah, Baron!" exclaimed Thornburg, advancing 
 to meet his guest as the latter was shown into the 
 room. "I'm glad to see you here." 
 
 As he turned to his wife, to introduce the visitor, 
 Baron was struck by something cautious and alert 
 in his manner the manner of a man who must 
 be constantly prepared to make allowances, to 
 take soundings. He presented an altogether whole- 
 some picture as he looked alternately at his wife 
 and his guest. His abundant, stubborn gray hair 
 was in comfortable disorder, to harmonize with 
 the smoking-jacket he wore, and Baron looked at 
 him more than once with the uncomfortable sense 
 
 130
 
 How a Conveyance Came 
 
 of never having really known him before. He 
 thought, too, how this brusque, ruddy man seemed 
 in a strange fashion imprisoned within the radius 
 of an ailing wife's influence. 
 
 "Mr. Baron is the man who carried that little 
 girl out of the theatre the other day," explained 
 Thornburg. He turned again to Baron with a 
 casual air: "Do you find that your people still 
 want to let her go?" 
 
 He was playing a part, obviously; the part of 
 one who is all but indifferent. Mrs. Thornburg 
 scrutinized the visitor's face closely. 
 
 "Yes, I believe they do," replied Baron. 
 
 "I've been talking to Mrs. Thornburg about the 
 case. She understands that I feel a sort of re- 
 sponsibility. I think I've about persuaded her to 
 have a look at the little girl." 
 
 Mrs. Thornburg seemed unwilling to look at her 
 husband while he was speaking. Baron thought 
 she must be concealing something. She was gaz- 
 ing at him with an expression of reproach, not 
 wholly free from resentment. 
 
 "Hasn't the child any relatives?" she asked. 
 She seemed to be making an effort to speak 
 calmly. 
 
 "I really can't answer that," said Baron. "She 
 seems not to have. She has told me very little 
 about herself, yet I believe she has told me all she 
 knows. She has spoken of a young woman an 
 actress she has travelled with. There doesn't ap-
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 pear to have been any one else. I believe she never 
 has had a home." 
 
 Mrs. Thornburg withdrew her gaze from him. 
 She concerned herself with the rings on her thin, 
 white fingers. "How did you happen to be with 
 her in the theatre?" she asked. 
 
 "I was in one of the upper boxes. I don't know 
 how she came to be there. I believe she couldn't 
 find a seat anywhere else." 
 
 "And you'd never seen her before?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 There was an uncomfortable silence. Both 
 Thornburg and Baron were looking interestedly 
 at Mrs. Thornburg, who refused to lift her eyes. 
 "I wonder how you happened to take her to your 
 home?" she asked finally. 
 
 Baron laughed uneasily. "I'm wondering my- 
 self," he said. "Nobody seems to approve of what 
 I did. But if you could have seen her! She's 
 really quite wonderful. Very pretty, you know, 
 and intelligent. But that isn't it, after all. She 
 is so charmingly frank. I think that's it. It's 
 unusual in a child." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," agreed Mrs. Thornburg. "Un- 
 usual in any one, I should say." 
 
 "Why, perhaps it is," agreed Baron simply. 
 He was not a little puzzled by something in Mrs. 
 Thornburg's manner. 
 
 "And why don't you want to keep her?" she 
 wanted to know. 
 
 132
 
 How a Conveyance Came 
 
 "We meant to. But it turns out that she and 
 my mother are well, antagonistic." 
 
 "That's unfortunate, isn't it? Please pardon 
 me you see, I'm really handicapped. But what 
 kind of woman is your mother?" She put the 
 question so softly that it did not seem offensive. 
 
 Baron hesitated. "Perhaps it will explain if I 
 say that she is elderly? There haven't been any 
 children in the house for a good many years. She 
 believes what is the familiar saying? that chil- 
 dren ought to be seen and not heard." 
 
 Mrs. Thornburg hesitated. "That wouldn't be 
 quite the reason," she said. "Your mother is is 
 orthodox, I suspect, in her friendships and ways. 
 I'm sure you see what I mean." 
 
 "Yes," admitted Baron. "I think you are get- 
 ting closer to the facts than I did." 
 
 A pretty, delicate hue warmed the wbman's 
 face, and her voice softened almost to tenderness. 
 "I think I know," she went on. "The little girl 
 of the stage, out of some unknown place in Bo- 
 hemia she must seem quite disturbing, hopelessly 
 out of harmony. ..." 
 
 "You put the case much better than I did. Yet 
 you know all that's scarcely fair to Bonnie May. 
 She's not really bold and impertinent, in the usual 
 sense of those words. She hasn't had the kind of 
 training other children have. She has never as- 
 sociated with other children. You can see that 
 instantly. She assumes that she has the same 
 
 133
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 right to her opinion that older people have to theirs. 
 She never means to offend. I have an idea she's 
 really quite affectionate. I have an idea if you 
 once won her over " 
 
 Mrs. Thornburg turned toward her husband 
 and leaned forward in her chair, her eyes filled 
 with a soft, generous impulse. ^ When she spoke 
 her voice vibrated with feeling. 
 
 "Bring her home!" she said. 
 
 Baron fancied there was an expression of triumph 
 in the manager's bearing. "You mean now to- 
 night?" he asked. 
 
 "Why not to-night? I'm eager to have her; 
 really eager, now that I've decided." 
 
 "It's quite simple," declared Thornburg. "I 
 suppose you'll have to to get a few things ready?" 
 
 Her whole being became tremulous she who 
 had had no children of her own, and who knew 
 nothing about them. "Nothing to-night, to speak 
 of. To-morrow. ..." She clasped her hands and 
 looked into vacancy, as if visions were coming to 
 her. 
 
 But Thornburg was already in an adjoining 
 room at the telephone, ordering his machine. 
 
 Baron regarded Mrs. Thornburg thoughtfully. 
 He was surprised and touched by her intensity. 
 Then she looked at him, mutely appealing. There 
 was a long moment during which two minds tried 
 to meet across a barrier of emotion and a lack of 
 mutual knowledge. Then Mrs. Thornburg spoke.
 
 How a Conveyance Came 
 
 "You know," she explained, "we've both been dis- 
 appointed, deeply disappointed, because we hadn't 
 any of our own." 
 
 When Thornburg's automobile stopped before 
 the Baron mansion, half an hour later that eve- 
 ning, and the manager and Baron got out, some- 
 thing happened. 
 
 Mrs. Baron, her gray hair stirring slightly in the 
 spring breeze, stood on the front steps for all the 
 world like an alert sentinel. 
 
 "Well, Victor?" she demanded, as her son ad- 
 vanced toward her. Her voice was sternly chal- 
 lenging. 
 
 "This gentleman has come to take Bonnie May 
 away," replied her son. He derived a certain sat- 
 isfaction from her disturbed state. 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 "To her new home, with Mr. and Mrs. Thorn- 
 burg." 
 
 "Do you mean you've brought that machine to 
 take her away to-night?" 
 
 "Why, yes certainly." 
 
 "Well, you can just send it away. You won't 
 need it to-night." 
 
 "I don't believe I understand, mother!" 
 
 Baron had approached the lowest step and 
 Thornburg had taken a position close to him. 
 Mrs. Baron, from her superior height, frowned 
 down upon them as if they were two kidnappers 
 who must be held at bay. 
 
 135
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "You probably don't," replied Mrs. Baron. "It 
 isn't necessary that you should, either. But you'll 
 grasp my meaning when I tell you that child shall 
 not be taken away in the dead of night, as if she 
 were being stolen, and she shall not leave this 
 house until she has been decently clothed and made 
 ready to go. I never heard of such an outrageous 
 thing in my life." She turned with fear, yet with 
 severity, toward Thornburg. When she spoke 
 again it might have seemed that she regarded the 
 manager as a kind of trained wolf over whom her 
 son might possess an influence. "Victor, tell him 
 to go away ! " she commanded. " When I want 
 him to come back I'll let you know." 
 
 She turned with the air of a queen who had 
 been affronted. In an instant she had disappeared. 
 The door had been quite unmistakably slammed 
 behind her. 
 
 136
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 RELATES TO THE PLAYING OF PARTS 
 
 MUCH light is thrown upon the character of Vic- 
 tor Baron when it is said that he was the kind of 
 young man who likes to sit in an attic when the 
 rain is falling. 
 
 Such a young man may possess many high vir- 
 tues, certainly; but he can scarcely hope to escape 
 occasional contact with what is called the world's 
 cold shoulder. He is clearly not the sort of person 
 who knows what magic there is in the matter of 
 percentages and other such progressive and acquis- 
 itive sciences. 
 
 We now encounter this peculiar young man in 
 his attic room, on an afternoon when the rain was 
 falling steadily. 
 
 Days had passed since Mrs. Baron had driven 
 the manager, Thornburg, from her front door. 
 Something like a fixed status in the case of Bonnie 
 May had been brought about. Seemingly, she had 
 become a permanent member of the Baron house- 
 hold. 
 
 Yet Baron was not happy. Having performed 
 his duty in solving one problem, he had now passed 
 on to another, an older problem.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 There was the fact of his aimless existence star- 
 ing him in the face; the fact that he had been home 
 from the university over a year now, and that as 
 yet he had chosen no plough to the handles of 
 which he meant to set his hands. 
 
 He did a little newspaper writing when the spirit 
 moved him: articles and reviews which were often 
 quite cordially accepted and sometimes even ur- 
 gently solicited but which were still subjected to 
 a measuring process in the accounting room of the 
 newspaper offices, and which were only meagrely 
 profitable. 
 
 To be sure, his needs were quite simple. He 
 made no contributions to the up-keep of the house- 
 hold. He kept his tailor's bills paid with a reason- 
 able degree of promptitude. Usually, too, he had 
 funds enough for books and other means of recrea- 
 tion. Still, there were occasions when he had to 
 go to his mother for assistance, and this practise 
 he was compelled to contemplate with utter dis- 
 favor. 
 
 It is true that he never asked his mother for 
 Money. The Barons pronounced the word money 
 as if it were spelled with a capital letter, like cer- 
 tain other more or less unsavory names Lucre tia 
 Borgia, New Caledonia, Christian Science, Prus- 
 sianism, or Twilight Sleep. He used to ask her, 
 when need arose, if she had any street-car-fare lying 
 about. And she would put her index-finger to her 
 forehead and meditate, and then remember sud- 
 
 138
 
 Relates to the Playing of Parts 
 
 denly that there was some in her work-basket on 
 the centre-table, or under something or other on 
 the sideboard. A burglar would have had a dis- 
 couraging experience in the mansion; not because 
 there was never anything to steal, but because 
 what money there was was always placed lightly 
 in such unpromising places. 
 
 "I really ought to get down to business," con- 
 cluded Baron, sitting in his attic though the 
 phrase was inept, since business was another word 
 which the Barons pronounced as if it were spelled 
 with a capital letter. 
 
 The place was depressingly quiet. The house- 
 man, Thomason, might be in his room, which ad- 
 joined Baron's; but Thomason never made any 
 noise. He was almost uncannily quiet at all times. 
 The door between the two rooms was never opened. 
 Both opened upon the hall, and when Thomason 
 wished to attend to his duties he descended to the 
 floor below, where a back stairway afforded egress 
 to the lower regions where his more active interests 
 lay. 
 
 Yes, the quietude was just now quite depressing. 
 Sitting by an open window, Baron looked out upon 
 the sombre vista of back street, which was unin- 
 viting at best, but which now presented a doubly 
 depressing aspect in the monotonously falling rain. 
 
 An intercepted picture of a small park was visible 
 several blocks away. The Lutheran church, whose 
 bell was forever tinkling a message of another time 
 
 139
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 and place, was in sight, and so was the shoulder 
 of a brewery. 
 
 Closer at hand men and women were hurrying 
 in various directions, seeking escape from the rain. 
 They had finished their day's work and were now 
 going home to enjoy their well-earned bread and 
 meat and rest. Over there where the wind currents 
 of two streets met two small boys stood beneath a 
 dilapidated umbrella and permitted a torrent of 
 muddy water in the gutter to run over their bare 
 feet. A beer-driver, partly sheltered under the 
 hood of his dray, drove rumblingly over the cobble- 
 stones toward the near-by brewery. On the ends of 
 passing street-cars home-going crowds were trying 
 to escape the falling ram. 
 
 All this constituted a back-street picture which 
 none of the Barons observed as a rule. It was the 
 habit of the family to confine their outlook to the 
 front view. But just now Baron was experiencing 
 a frame of mind which made the humble side of 
 life significant and even fascinating. 
 
 Still, he was glad to have his solitude invaded 
 when, some time later, he felt a light touch on his 
 shoulder. Unheard and unobserved, Bonnie May 
 had stolen into the room. She had "caught" him 
 in a brown study. 
 
 "Don't you think you've been studying your part 
 long enough?" she asked. She was looking at him 
 with cheerful comprehension. 
 
 "What part?" he asked. 
 140
 
 Relates to the Playing of Parts 
 
 "Well, of course I don't know exactly, except 
 that it would be your part whatever that is. 
 That's what people always do when they're alone, 
 isn't it? They think how certain words will sound, 
 or how they will do this or that. That's studying 
 a part, isn't it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes in a way." 
 
 She pulled a chair to the window, close to him, 
 and climbed into it. "There's really something 
 funny about it," she added with a reminiscent 
 manner. 
 
 "Funny?" 
 
 ,"I mean about people and their parts. You 
 know, mostly people aren't thinking at all about 
 how to do their own parts better. They're imagin- 
 ing themselves in some r61e way beyond them. 
 When they think they are ambitious they're mostly 
 just sore because somebody is doing better than 
 they are. It's jealousy not ambition. My good- 
 ness, the little parts are important enough!" 
 
 Baron regarded her in silence. Then "but 
 don't you think everybody ought to want to ad- 
 vance?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, well yes; but think how a production 
 would be if the little parts even the populace 
 were done wrong ! If I had only one line, I'd want to 
 believe it was as important as anything in the play." 
 
 Baron tried to apply that philosophy to his own 
 "part," but he had to admit that the result was 
 not at all satisfactory. 
 
 141
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Anyway," she added, "if you do things the 
 way your audience wants you to do them, I'll bet 
 the big parts will come fast enough." 
 
 "The audience!" echoed Baron. "I'd want a 
 higher standard than that. I'd want to to play 
 my part the way I thought it should be done. I 
 wouldn't be satisfied just with pleasing the au- 
 dience." 
 
 "Oh, but that's the wrong idea. I've seen people 
 like that. They never were what you'd call artists. 
 Believe me, the audience is the best judge." 
 
 Baron, seeking for a symbol, believed there was 
 no hope of finding it in this. His mind wandered, 
 and when he brought it back to the child who sat 
 before him she was talking of her own problem in 
 a way which did not touch his at all. 
 
 "I think it's the chance of my life," she was say- 
 ing, "my being here with you all." 
 
 "A chance for what?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, to pick things up. You know I can't al- 
 ways be a Little Eva. I'll be too old for that after 
 a while. And then it will be handy for me to have 
 a little a little class." 
 
 " Class ! " exclaimed Baron. " Class ? " 
 
 He had been arguing that the one thing wrong 
 with his way of thinking and living was that he 
 and his family had attached a silly importance to 
 the class idea, and that it had prevented him from 
 learning to be active and useful in ways that counted 
 in the world in which he had to live. 
 
 142
 
 Relates to the Playing of Parts 
 
 "It's a good thing," defended Bonnie May. 
 "It's needed in all the best plays. And you can't 
 get it just by going to the wardrobe mistress, either. 
 It's something that's got to be in you. In order to do 
 it right, you've pretty near got to have the goods." 
 
 She couldn't understand why Baron had spoken 
 with such emphasis with such resentment. 
 
 "Class," mused Baron to himself. He looked 
 intently at this child who did not know where she 
 had been born who knew nothing even about her 
 parentage. 
 
 But she had turned to a happier memory. "You 
 know you can't play the part of Little Eva very 
 long, even when you begin quite early. And I was 
 just a little bit of a thing when I played it first." 
 She laughed heartily. "I couldn't even speak 
 plain. I used to say ' U'kle Tom ' ! How they 
 laughed at me ! ' U'kle Tom ! ' It's really a hideous 
 word, isn't it? 'Uncle,' and 'aunt,' too. You can 
 see that the man who framed up those words never 
 thought very highly of uncles and aunts. Just 
 compare those words with 'father' and 'mother'! 
 Aren't they lovely ? Father ! " she spoke the word 
 musingly. "Father!" Her body drooped forward 
 slightly, and her face was pitched up so that she 
 was gazing into space. "Beautiful words, and 
 mother ! . . . mother ! " Her voice had become 
 a yearning whisper. 
 
 Baron touched her shoulders with gentle hands. 
 "Don't, child!" he implored her. 
 
 143
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 She aroused herself as from a dream. Her eyes 
 brightened. She looked at him searchingly. "You 
 thought ... I believe I was, too ! " 
 
 She sprang to her feet. "I really do intend to 
 pick up a lot of things while I am here," she added 
 briskly. She walked across the floor. "An imita- 
 tion of a person of class," she said. She moved 
 with studied elegance. "You see," she exclaimed, 
 turning to him, "I can't do it at all right ! I ought 
 to beat that." She returned to her starting-point. 
 "See if I do it any better," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Baron appeared in the doorway, but neither 
 Baron nor the child saw her. Again Bonnie May 
 crossed the room. This time she assumed a slightly 
 careless air, and looked airily at imaginary objects 
 to right and left. Her movement was slightly un- 
 dulating. She turned to Baron suddenly: "What 
 you have to do is to be really proud, without think- 
 ing about it. I know how it ought to be done, but 
 it's hard to get the hang of it. If you don't get it 
 just right you're likely to look like a saleslady." 
 She discovered Mrs. Baron, who stood rather scorn- 
 fully in the doorway. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Baron!" she exclaimed. She was 
 somewhat dismayed. She thought of adopting a 
 conciliatory course. "You could show us just 
 what I mean, if you would," she said. 
 
 "I came to say that dinner is ready," said Mrs. 
 Baron. "Could show you what?" 
 
 " Won't you please come here quite over to this 
 144
 
 Relates to the Playing of Parts 
 
 end of the room ? Now please go out. We'll come 
 right away." 
 
 Mrs. Baron regarded her sternly. Bonnie May 
 flushed and her glance became softly appealing. 
 She took Mrs. Baron's hand and patted it. "I'm 
 not being rude, really," she declared. "It's as if 
 we were asking you to settle a bet, you know." 
 
 "I don't understand at all." 
 
 "Well, please don't be angry. If you are, it 
 will spoil everything." 
 
 Mrs. Baron turned to her son. He was tele- 
 graphing to her an earnest appeal, in which she 
 read an assurance that she was not to be made 
 ridiculous, even from the extraordinary view-point 
 of Bonnie May. 
 
 "Did you understand that dinner is ready?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes, mother. We'll be right down." 
 
 Mrs. Baron left the room. 
 
 "Look at it! Look at it!" whispered Bonnie 
 May. Her hands were clasped in a worshipful ec- 
 stasy. Her eyes seemed to retain the picture after 
 Mrs. Baron had disappeared. Then she turned 
 with swift intensity to Baron. 
 
 "Oh, I do hope she'll care for me a little!" she 
 exclaimed. "She's so so legitimate!" 
 
 145
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 A MYSTERIOUS SEARCH BEGINS 
 
 FROM a sky that had been rapidly clearing, a bolt 
 fell. 
 
 Somewhere in the city, in what mysterious spot 
 Baron could not surmise, a search for Bonnie May 
 began. Like a wireless message seeking persistently 
 for a receiving-centre, the quest of the unclaimed 
 child launched itself. 
 
 The afternoon delivery of letters at the mansion 
 had been made, and Bonnie May met the carrier 
 at the door. 
 
 A moment later she entered the library, where 
 Baron sat, and laid before him a single letter. 
 
 He examined postmark and inscription without 
 being in the least enlightened. With a pair of 
 scissors he cut the end from the envelope and drew 
 forth the single sheet it contained. 
 
 His glance dropped to the bottom of the sheet, 
 and then he sat up suddenly erect, and uttered an 
 unintelligible exclamation. 
 
 For the first time in his life he had received an 
 anonymous communication. 
 
 The thing had the merit of brevity: 
 
 11 Do not give up the child, Bonnie May, to any one 
 who does not present a legal claim on her" 
 
 146
 
 A Mysterious Search Begins 
 
 A disguised handwriting. This was obvious 
 from certain exaggerations and a lack of symmetry. 
 
 He replaced the missive in its envelope, and then 
 he took it out and read it again. 
 
 The thing excited him. Who could be seeking 
 the child, after days of silence even of hiding? 
 And who could have known of his possession of 
 her? Again, why make a mystery of the matter? 
 
 He threw the puzzling words aside. People did 
 not pay any attention to anonymous communica- 
 tions, he reflected. 
 
 Nevertheless, he could not calm himself. He 
 started nervously at the sound of the telephone- 
 bell down in the dining-room. 
 
 Responding, he heard Thombtrrg's voice at the 
 other end of the wire. 
 
 "Is this Baron? Say, can you come down to 
 my office right away?" The manager's voice be- 
 trayed excitement, Baron thought. Or was he 
 himself in an abnormal frame of mind? 
 
 "Yes, certainly," he replied. He added: "Any- 
 thing wrong ? " 
 
 "Why no; no, I think not. I'll tell you when 
 you get here." 
 
 Something was wrong, however Baron could 
 see it the moment he entered the manager's office, 
 half an hour later. 
 
 He had to wait a little while for an audience. 
 Thornburg was talking to an actress or to a woman 
 who had the appearance of an actress. She sat with 
 
 147
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 her back toward the office door and did not turn. 
 But Thornburg, upon Baron's entrance, made a 
 very obvious effort to bring the interview with this 
 earlier caller to an end. He seemed vastly uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 "What you ought to do is to get a stock en- 
 gagement somewhere," Thornburg was saying im- 
 patiently. "I might possibly get you in with 
 Abramson, out in San Francisco. He wrote me 
 the other day about a utility woman. I'll look up 
 his letter and see it there's anything in it. You 
 might come back." 
 
 He arose with decision, fairly lifting the woman 
 to her feet by the force of peremptory example. 
 "About that other matter " he moved toward 
 the door, clearly intimating that he wished to 
 finish what he had to say outside the office. 
 
 The woman followed; but in passing Baron she 
 paused, and her eyes rested upon him sharply. 
 There was a suggestion of suspicion in her manner, 
 in her glance, and Baron had the vexing sensation 
 of having seen her before without being able to 
 identify her. A furrow appeared in his forehead. 
 He made a determined effort to remember. No, 
 he couldn't place her. She might be an actress he 
 had seen on the stage somewhere or other. 
 
 She and Thornburg passed out of the office and 
 the manager closed the door behind him. Baron 
 could still hear their voices, now lowered to an 
 angry whisper. Thornburg seemed to be speaking 
 accusingly, but Baron could not catch the words. 
 
 148
 
 A Mysterious Search Begins 
 
 Then this one sentence, in Thornburg's voice, 
 came sharply: "I tell you, you've worked me as 
 long as you're going to ! " 
 
 Then the manager, flushed and excited, re-entered 
 the office and closed the door angrily. 
 
 And in that moment Baron remembered: That 
 was the woman who had stood in the theatre, talk- 
 ing in a tense fashion with the manager, the day he, 
 Baron, had sat up in the balcony box with Bonnie 
 May! 
 
 He had no time to ponder this fact, however. 
 Thornburg turned to him abruptly. "Have you 
 seen the Times to-day?" he asked. 
 
 "I glanced at it. Why?" 
 
 The manager took a copy of the paper from a 
 pigeonhole in his desk. "Look at that," he di- 
 rected, handing the paper to Baron. It was folded 
 so that a somewhat obscure item was uppermost. 
 
 Baron read: "Any one having knowledge of the 
 whereabouts of the child calling herself Bonnie 
 May, and professionally known by that name, will 
 please communicate with X Y Z, in care of the 
 Times" 
 
 Baron dropped the paper on the desk and turned 
 to Thornburg without speaking. 
 
 The manager, now strangely quiet and morose, 
 gazed abstractedly at the floor. "I wish," he said 
 at length, "I wish she was in Tophet, or somewhere 
 else outside my jurisdiction." 
 
 "But how do you know it is a she?" demanded 
 Baron, indicating the newspaper. 
 
 149
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "I mean Bonnie May. I don't know anything 
 about that advertisement." 
 
 For a moment Baron could only stare at the 
 manager. He was wholly at sea. He was begin- 
 ning to feel a deep resentment. He had done nothing 
 that a man need apologize for. By a fair enough in- 
 terpretation it might be said that he had tried to 
 do a good deed. And now he was being caught in 
 the meshes of a mystery and Thornburg was be- 
 having disagreeably, unreasonably. 
 
 He leaned back in his chair and tried to assume 
 a perfectly tranquil manner. He was determined 
 not to lose his head. 
 
 "This advertisement," he said, "seems to solve 
 the problem. The writer of it may not care to take 
 Bonnie May to Tophet; but at least he or she 
 seems ready enough to take her off our hands. Off 
 my hands, I should say. What more do you 
 want?" 
 
 The manager scowled. "I don't want anybody to 
 take her off your hands, nor my hands." 
 
 "Why not? If they're entitled to her " 
 
 "I don't believe they're entitled to her. A child 
 like that. . . . She's worth a lot to people who 
 know how to handle her. Somebody who needs 
 her in his business is probably trying to get hold 
 of her." 
 
 "Oh, that doesn't sound reasonable to me at 
 all. Somebody has had charge of her. Somebody 
 brought her to the theatre. Her mother, in all 
 
 150
 
 A Mysterious Search Begins 
 
 probability." Baron tried to speak quite casually. 
 "Possibly her father's somewhere about, too." 
 
 Thornburg glared resentfully at the younger 
 man. "If her mother was about," he demanded, 
 "would she have waited all this while to speak?" 
 
 Baron was silenced for a moment. "Well, then," 
 he asked at length, "what is your sizing up of the 
 case ? " 
 
 "I think she was deserted, maybe because for 
 the moment she was a burden. I think some tin- 
 horn manager is looking for her now. And here's 
 another thing I know. I want her myself ! " 
 
 "But you were just saying " 
 
 "Well, then, my wife wants her. It's the same 
 thing. She made up her mind, and now she won't 
 change it. When I went home that night and re- 
 ported that we couldn't have her, she began to cry. 
 She wouldn't leave her bed the next morning. 
 She's been sick ever since. She'll lie for hours at 
 a time without saying anything but 'I wish we 
 could have had the little girl.' It's nonsense, of 
 course; but you have to take things as you find 
 them. The doctor says I must get her interested 
 in something as if the thing were perfectly simple. 
 If he'd ever run a theatre he'd know what it means 
 to get anybody interested. Well, there. ..." He 
 calmed himself suddenly and leaned toward Baron. 
 His next words were little more than whispered. 
 "You see," he said, "I'm fond of her of the wife. 
 I don't know if you could understand how I feel.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 She's all I've got, and there's a good bit of the child 
 about her, and she hasn't been quite well for a long 
 time. She needs me to think and plan for her to 
 understand her, as far as I can. You interested her 
 in this child. She wants her. And I want her to 
 have her." 
 
 "That's plain," said Baron. He was trying not 
 to be too much influenced by the manager's sudden 
 humility, his voicing of a need. So far as he knew, 
 he had his own rights in the case. And above every- 
 thing else there was to be considered Bonnie May's 
 right. If it seemed best for her to remain in the 
 mansion, there, Baron resolved, she should re- 
 main, until he was forced to release her. "That's 
 plain," he repeated. "I think it makes the case 
 simple enough. At least it makes it simpler. Why 
 not communicate with these people who are ad- 
 vertising? If they have any claim on her you can 
 come to terms with them. They ought to be 
 glad to see her placed in a good home. If they 
 haven't any claims, the sooner we know it the 
 better." 
 
 "I don't intend to pay any attention to them," 
 declared Thornburg. He was sullen and stubborn 
 again. 
 
 "Well, of course it isn't up to you," agreed Baron 
 mildly. "It's I who must do it, as of course I 
 shall." 
 
 "That's precisely what I don't want you to do. 
 That's why I sent for you." 
 
 152
 
 A Mysterious Search Begins 
 
 Baron flushed. "But " he objected. 
 
 "Do you know what'll happen if you show your 
 hand? I'll tell you. A lot of mountebanks will be 
 pouring into your house. They'll make it look 
 like a third-rate booking agency. Your people 
 will like that!" 
 
 Baron could see the picture: the grotesque persons 
 at his door; the sallow tragedian with a bass voice 
 and no mentality to speak of; the low comedian, 
 fat and obtuse; the ingenue with big, childish eyes 
 and deep lines in her face; the leading lady with a 
 self-imposed burden of cheap jewelry. He saw, too, 
 the big-hearted among them, gravely kind toward 
 children, and with a carefully schooled yearning 
 for them. 
 
 He straightened up with a jerk. "Oh, that 
 wouldn't be necessary," he declared. "I could 
 correspond with them through the agency of the 
 newspaper. I needn't give them my name and ad- 
 dress at all. I could require proper proofs before 
 I appeared in the matter at all personally." 
 
 This idea seemed to strike Thornburg as a method 
 of escape from a dilemma. "Why shouldn't I have 
 thought of that way myself?" he exclaimed. "I 
 can do it that way, of course. Better for me than 
 for you. More in my line, at least." 
 
 "I'm inclined to think I ought to do it myself," 
 objected Baron. "I really don't see why I should 
 leave it to you." Something in Thornburg's manner 
 had created a suspicion in his mind. There was 
 
 153
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 something too eager in the manager's tone; there 
 was a hint of cunning. 
 
 "If I give you my word?" said Thornburg. He 
 was resentful, offended. His face had flamed to 
 the roots of his hair. 
 
 "Oh, if you give me your word," agreed Baron 
 lightly. "I've no objection. Certainly, go ahead." 
 He scrutinized his stick with a long, frowning in- 
 spection. Then he arose with decision. "I'll leave 
 it to you," he added. "Only, I want to make one 
 condition." 
 
 " Oh a condition ! Well, what ? " 
 
 "You'll not take offense, Thornburg. You see, 
 I have certain scruples." His mind had gone back 
 over several episodes, and his analysis of them 
 pointed unyieldingly to one plain duty. "I want 
 to ask you just one question, and you're to answer 
 it in just a word: Yes, or No." 
 
 "Well, what's the question?" 
 
 Baron looked steadily into the other's eyes. 
 
 "The woman who was here in your office when 
 I came in; who stood with you in the theatre that 
 day I took Bonnie May home " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Is she the the former Mrs. Thornburg? Is 
 she the mother of Bonnie May?" 
 
 And Thornburg's answer came resolutely, prompt- 
 ly, in the tone of a man who tells the truth: 
 
 "No!"
 
 CHAPTER XTV 
 MR. ADDIS RECEIVES SUPPORT 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS that destiny had its eye upon her, 
 Bonnie May found increasing comfort and con- 
 tentment in her new home. 
 
 As a result of the delighted labors of Flora, her 
 wardrobe had become more complete than it had 
 ever been before. She developed such pride in the 
 possession of many garments that Flora forgot her 
 own needs and gave disproportionately of her time 
 and means to the "outfitting" of the guest whose 
 needs were so urgent. 
 
 As if for her special entertainment, unusual 
 things happened. 
 
 For example, Mr. Addis called again. And a 
 call from Mr. Addis became, in Bonnie May's 
 drama-loving mind, the most delicious form of in- 
 trigue. Mrs. Baron became indignant at the very 
 mention of Mr. Addis's name. Flora became 
 quietly wistful. 
 
 Kneeling on a low Brussels hassock at the front 
 window of the upper floor one night, Bonnie May 
 saw the figure of a man extricate itself from the 
 passing current of humanity and make resolutely 
 for the Baron door. 
 
 155
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 She swiftly placed her finger on her lip and re- 
 flected. "Mr. Addis!" she exclaimed in a whisper. 
 
 She made a supreme effort to leave the room 
 without appearing to have any definite purpose. 
 Once out of sight in the hall, however, she rushed 
 down the stairs, just in time to open the door be- 
 fore the bell was rung. She was in an elated state. 
 She had the lower floor to herself, save for Mrs. 
 Shepard, who would be sure not to interrupt. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Addis!" she whispered eagerly. She 
 promptly ushered him into the drawing-room and 
 quietly closed the door with an effect of being absent- 
 minded, rather than designing. "Please sit down," 
 she said. She had the light burning immediately. 
 
 She drew a chair forward and stood beside it a 
 moment, and under her inspection Mr. Addis's 
 cheeks took on even a deeper rosiness and his brown 
 eyes twinkled. 
 
 "How is my confederate?" he asked. 
 
 She was delighted. " That's it," she said. " That's 
 what I want to be. Your confederate. May I?" 
 
 "You may," he said with emphasis. 
 
 She had sat down. "You know," she confided, 
 "I'm strong for what you call heart interest. If 
 you haven't got anything but manners in your 
 show you soon find that people are patronizing the 
 burlesque houses. Don't you think I'm right?" 
 
 Mr. Addis did not make a very pertinent re- 
 sponse to this. "You're a queer little customer," 
 he said. 
 
 156
 
 Mr. Addis Receives Support 
 
 "That's what I call favorable criticism put into 
 plain words. I thank you." She added: "I want 
 to be friends with you if you'll let me because I 
 think we can't have the right kind of heart interest 
 around here unless you unless you take a more 
 prominent part." 
 
 Mr. Addis nodded. " That's my idea, too. That's 
 why I called. If you'll tell Mrs. Baron I'm here, 
 I'll see if I can't get her to agree with us." 
 
 Bonnie May did not stir. "Please not just yet," 
 she begged. "Couldn't we talk things over first? 
 If I could find out what's wrong. ..." She looked 
 at him with pretty embarrassment. 
 
 "What, for instance, would you like to know?" 
 
 She pulled herself farther back into her chair 
 and reflected a moment. "Would you mind," she 
 asked, "telling me how you got acquainted with 
 Miss Flora?" 
 
 "Not at all. She's been coming to my store to 
 order things ever since she was a little girl." 
 
 "Oh! your store. Well, go on." 
 
 "And occasionally I've dropped into the church 
 she goes to. You know who I am, I suppose?" 
 
 She beamed upon him. "I may not have all the 
 details. Suppose you make a complete confession." 
 
 He shot a dubious glance at her; then he smiled. 
 Bonnie May thought his teeth were quite wonder- 
 ful. "I'm the head of the Addis Stores Company." 
 
 Bonnie May looked slightly dismayed. 
 
 "A business man," added Mr. Addis firmly. 
 
 157
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "I've admired Miss Flora a very long time. I had 
 chances just to be nice and polite to her. I haven't 
 taken any pains to hide from her, for a year or 
 
 "I understand," Bonnie May finished for him. 
 
 "Well, then. But the trouble is that Mrs. 
 Baron " 
 
 "She can only see you with a pencil behind your 
 ear," supplemented Bonnie May. 
 
 Mr. Addis laughed. "Now you have it!" he 
 agreed. 
 
 Bonnie May pondered. "You know you're not 
 a regular-looking Romeo," she conceded. 
 
 "I know that very well. But at the same 
 time- 
 She gave him time to finish; then, as he seemed 
 to lack words, she came to his aid again: "If you 
 undertook to pay a lady's travelling expenses, it 
 would take a pretty smooth lago to make you do 
 anything nasty." 
 
 "That's it!" agreed Mr. Addis with emphasis. 
 
 "Have you tried the the little, unimportant 
 things?" 
 
 "As for example?" 
 
 "Well, just as a suggestion: you know you 
 weren't carrying a stick when you came in to- 
 night." 
 
 "Oh, that sort of thing. You see, that's not in 
 my line at all. I wouldn't know how to carry a 
 stick, or where to put it. I don't see any use in 
 
 158
 
 Mr. Addis Receives Support 
 
 'em except to beat off dogs, maybe and all the 
 dogs like me ! " 
 
 Bonnie May nodded. "After all, I believe you're 
 right in not taking up that sort of thing. Anyway, 
 I wasn't criticising. What I was saying was just 
 just confederate stuff, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I understand." 
 
 "Would you. . . . Would you mind telling me 
 what you think about mostly? When you're not 
 thinking about Miss Flora?" 
 
 Mr. Addis smiled quite delightedly. "Not at 
 all. I think of a nice home, you know. A place 
 out in the suburbs, with several acres of ground, 
 with a driveway, and and chickens," he con- 
 cluded somewhat lamely. 
 
 "Chickens!" echoed Bonnie May. 
 
 "Well, there would be fresh eggs, you know; 
 and then the look of them about the place espe- 
 cially the little ones, and roosters crowing in the 
 morning." 
 
 She shook her head dubiously. "What else?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Oh, such things as investments. Ground in 
 the new additions, where the values are going up 
 fast. Such things." 
 
 Bonnie May put up a restraining hand. "That 
 will do," she said. "Now tell me what chance you 
 have of seeing Flora when you when you haven't 
 got your pencil behind your ear." 
 
 "Why, there's church. I can always go to church.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 They make a real to-do over me there. They like 
 to come to me for subscriptions, you know." 
 
 At the word church she looked at him with 
 quickened interest. "Did they try to put over 
 anything on you the first time you went there?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Not a thing." 
 
 "That's funny." She put her own experiences 
 out of her mind. "Well," she resumed, "why 
 don't you go to church regularly and let them see 
 how nice and friendly you look when you haven't 
 got your make-up on?" 
 
 "I've thought of that. But you see, it doesn't 
 seem quite honest. As I understand it, church is 
 mostly for singing, and I couldn't carry a tune any 
 more than a bird could carry a bank-account. I'd 
 feel like an impostor if I went." 
 
 Bonnie May, sitting bolt upright in her chair, 
 put her hand on her heart and moved her head, 
 carefully erect, as far forward as possible, without 
 changing the attitude of her shoulders. 
 
 "I greet you," she said. "I can't sing, either." 
 
 "And so going to church don't seem to put me 
 in Miss Flora's class at all." 
 
 "Still," observed Bonnie May thoughtfully, 
 "Flora is not one of the Original Songbird Sisters 
 herself." 
 
 "No, but she follows along. And I never could 
 get the hang of the thing at all." 
 
 Bonnie May laughed swiftly, and then cast a 
 160
 
 Mr. Addis Receives Support 
 
 cautious eye at the ceiling, and checked herself. 
 "After all," she said, "we're not getting at the 
 real trouble, whatever it is. You know the dif- 
 ference between the old families and the the oth- 
 ers, is that the others talk about making money, 
 while the old families talk about spending it. You're 
 not an old family, probably?" 
 
 "Well, I never talk about it, if I am. I like to 
 work. I like to be interested in things that every- 
 body else is interested in. The objection to me, I 
 think, is that my business happens to be groceries. 
 People think of soap, I suppose, and a crate of 
 eggs with here and there a broken one in it. Ugly 
 things, you know." 
 
 Bonnie May shuddered. "Please don't!" she 
 implored. "You must keep your mind off of it. 
 Your suburban-home idea is nice. But put a soft 
 pedal on the chickens. Think of Chinese lanterns. 
 Lawn-parties, I mean. Talk about al fresco per- 
 formances of Shakespeare and house-parties. Don't 
 let anybody think about how you earn money. 
 Let them believe you've just got it. Really, it's not 
 a very nice subject. If the word ' money' ever comes 
 up, just yawn and say something about not being 
 able to decide whether you want to spend the summer 
 in the Yellowstone or in the Thousand Islands." 
 
 Mr. Addis shook his head. "No," he said. "I 
 couldn't put on airs. You see, I think Miss Flora 
 thinks enough of me as I am, and I couldn't be 
 something different just to please her mother." 
 
 161
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Had you thought of the old-fashioned way 
 'of running away?" 
 
 Mr. Addis became quite serious. "Miss Flora's 
 not that kind," he said promptly. "No, I've got 
 to fight it out with with the mother." 
 
 At this juncture Mrs. Baron, in her sitting-room, 
 closed the anthology with the flexible leather covers 
 and inclined her head slightly. 
 
 "Flora," she called, "I'm sure I hear voices 
 down-stairs. Will you go see?" 
 
 Flora appeared in the doorway. "I can't hear 
 anything," she said. "Where's Bonnie May? I 
 thought she was here with you." 
 
 "I thought she was here, too, until just now. 
 She may be 'receiving' to-night. Of course, she 
 wouldn't think it necessary to take us into her 
 confidence." 
 
 Flora sighed softly. "I really don't hear any- 
 body," she said. "I expect she's gone up to Vic- 
 tor's room." A smile came to her lips as she went 
 down-stairs. Her mother's petulance had been of 
 the sort she might be expected to manifest if her 
 own child had irritated her. 
 
 She was startled when she opened the drawing- 
 room door and confronted Mr. Addis and Bonnie 
 May. 
 
 "Enter the heroine!" was the child's greeting. 
 "Exit the crowd." She would have left the room, 
 then, but Miss Baron stood in her way. 
 
 162
 
 "Enter the heroine!" was the child's greeting.
 
 Mr. Addis Receives Support 
 
 "Bonnie May!" she cried with gentle severity, 
 "I'm afraid you're going to get us all into trouble 
 one of these days." She turned with a flush to Mr. 
 Addis. "Good evening," she said, with reproach 
 in her tone. She added, with gentle mischief: "You 
 seem to have gained an ally." 
 
 Mr. Addis was on his feet, shaking her hand 
 vigorously. "I have," he confessed. "But please 
 don't blame her. I think I haven't set her a very 
 good example." 
 
 Flora turned to the child with a kind of forlorn 
 fondness and made a characteristic movement, as 
 if she were pushing escaping strands of hair into 
 place. She appeared not to observe that Mr. Addis 
 was still holding her hand. Then with evident de- 
 cision she moved away from him. 
 
 "It won't do," she declared, meeting the visitor's 
 eyes. "It's not the right way to do things." 
 
 "I've been trying to think of the right way," 
 replied Mr. Addis with dignity. 
 
 "But doing things secretly ... I don't believe 
 anything is worth having unless you can have it 
 honestly even a friendship. You know how 
 mother feels. And and I can't quarrel with her. 
 I think a little injustice is better than quarrelling." 
 Her voice held a note of sadness, of discourage- 
 ment. 
 
 Mr. Addis suddenly stood more erect. "Miss 
 Flora, you're right," he said. "I mustn't try to 
 hide anything. I won't." 
 
 163
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Bonnie May," said Flora, "will you please go 
 and ask mother to come down?" 
 
 "That's it," agreed Mr. Addis. "The thing for 
 me to do is to have a little talk with her." And 
 then they waited, without looking at each other, 
 until Mrs. Baron descended the stairs and entered 
 the room. 
 
 The poor old lady's manner hardened the in- 
 stant she appeared. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Addis," she said in a tone 
 of frank resentment. "I don't believe we were 
 expecting you." 
 
 "No, I wasn't expected," replied Mr. Addis. "I 
 hope you'll excuse me for taking you by surprise." 
 
 Flora was holding to a chair as if for support. 
 She did not sit down. 
 
 /'There's no harm done," said Mrs. Baron. "I 
 dare say there won't be." She seated herself with 
 great firmness of purpose and looked from Mr. 
 Addis to Flora, and then back to Mr. Addis with- 
 out winking. 
 
 This aloof form of bullying had a happy effect 
 upon Mr. Addis. He became ominously calm. 
 
 "No, no harm at all," he said. "On the con- 
 trary. I think a little plain talk may be the best 
 thing for all of us. Maybe I haven't come to the 
 point as I should have done, up to now. I think 
 I've been a little timid, you know. But here's the 
 fact. I think Miss Flora here is the finest girl I've 
 ever met. I've got great respect for you, too, Mrs. 
 
 164
 
 Mr. Addis Receives Support 
 
 Baron. And for your family. But the plain 
 truth is, I want Miss Flora. I don't say she's mine 
 for the asking. But I want the right and the chance 
 to consult her about it. If she tells me she's quite 
 sure I won't do, that'll settle it. But you seem to 
 have made up your mind beforehand that Flora 
 shall not have a mind of her own. One of the 
 reasons why I think so highly of her is that she is 
 a good daughter. That isn't such a common thing 
 nowadays, Mrs. Baron. She's nice and high- 
 minded. She wouldn't stoop to any tricks. She's 
 a young lady who tells the truth. And that, if you 
 will excuse me, is something I like to do myself. 
 What I want to point out is that I don't believe 
 you've thought what it means for you to take ad- 
 vantage of her obedience and respect. You don't 
 want her to pay a penalty for being a good girl. 
 Give her a chance. Give me a chance. I don't 
 mind your proving to her that I wouldn't make 
 her a good husband if you can. But you can 
 trust to her sense and to her honor. Be frank with 
 her. Don't treat her as if she were a child. You 
 know, ma'am, it's her affair more than it is yours, 
 after all. Give her and me a chance to talk it 
 over." 
 
 Flora's color came and went during this patient, 
 rather labored recital. The utterly prosaic course 
 events were taking, as a result of her mother's 
 prejudice, impressed her strangely. She could have 
 laughed but also she could have wept. 
 
 165
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Mrs. Baron had refused to meet Mr. Addis's 
 eyes while he spoke, but now she compelled herself 
 to regard him. Her eyebrows were at a most formi- 
 dable elevation. "I have tried to impress you with 
 the fact, Mr. Addis," she said, "that I do not con- 
 sider you a suitable person to to become associated 
 in any way with my family." 
 
 Mr. Addis flushed. "The loss would be mine, 
 ma'am, if I were not permitted to be friendly toward 
 all the members of your family, but, if you will 
 pardon me, I can very easily console myself for 
 the loss, if I have Miss Flora." These words Mr. 
 Addis spoke with unmistakable emphasis. 
 
 "Would you mind," said Mrs. Baron, speaking 
 very evenly, "would you mind not speaking quite 
 so loudly?" 
 
 She succeeded in conveying the idea that he had 
 violated all the laws of good taste, and that she 
 had borne with him like a martyr. 
 
 Mr. Addis looked at her questioningly. When 
 he spoke again his voice was low, his words were 
 measured. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said. "I always tell 
 my young men not to become too spirited when 
 they're in earnest. If I have offended in that way 
 I ask you to excuse me." 
 
 There was a lump in Flora's throat. He had 
 accepted a rebuke which seemed to her needless, 
 and even cruel, with just the kind of dignity which ( 
 her mother should have prized above all other 
 
 166
 
 Mr. Addis Receives Support 
 
 qualities. And he seemed so splendidly simple and 
 earnest and strong. 
 
 She came forward with an obvious effort to speak 
 and move easily. "Mother," she said, "Mr. Addis 
 is only asking to be received here as a visitor. He 
 has paid us the compliment of wishing to become 
 better acquainted with us. Can you think of any 
 good reason why he shouldn't? because, really, I 
 can't think of any at all." 
 
 "Oh, you can't!" responded her mother. "Then 
 I'll make it plain to you. For the present I must 
 ask you to go up-stairs and let me have a word 
 with this this gentleman, who appears to have 
 his own method of getting into houses where he 
 isn't invited." 
 
 Flora was too deeply wounded to respond to 
 this. Shame and grief were in her glance. "Good 
 night," she said. She went out of the room without 
 glancing back. But there was something strangely 
 eloquent in her exit. She seemed to take with her 
 beauty and light, and to leave the room a prey to 
 all manner of unloveliness. 
 
 Something in her bearing had dismayed Mrs. 
 Baron. Something, too, in the cold, steady glance 
 of Mr. Addis dismayed her. She turned nervously 
 toward the hall. "Flora!" she called. "Flora!" 
 And she followed her daughter up the broad stair- 
 way. 
 
 They had all forgotten Bonnie May. When she 
 had summoned Mrs. Baron, at the behest of Flora 
 
 167
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 and Mr. Addis, she had returned, quietly and un- 
 observed, and had taken her place inconspicuously 
 in a far corner of the room. 
 
 Now she came forward, a light of eagerness in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "That was a great speech you made," she said. 
 
 Mr. Addis, gazing toward the empty staircase, 
 seemed unaware of her presence. 
 
 "It was good stuff," she added, and then Mr. 
 Addis turned to her with an almost unseeing glance. 
 
 "I think it's time for you to go off-stage," she 
 added nervously. "But I'll bet you one thing. 
 When the big climax comes, you and Flora will be 
 standing in the middle of the stage, close together, 
 and the rest will be grouped about just to fill out 
 the picture." 
 
 She let him out at the door. She did not seem 
 to be at all disturbed because he seemed scarcely 
 conscious of her presence. 
 
 168
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 A QUESTION OF RECONSTRUCTION 
 
 IN keeping with the Baron manner, no mention of 
 Mr. Addis's name was made openly in the mansion 
 the next morning. The normal atmosphere was 
 changed only by a more pronounced reticence, 
 which doubtless hid varying degrees of sullenness 
 or resentment. But there was no lack of politeness. 
 On the contrary, there was an excess of it. 
 
 Of course it was realized that Mr. Addis had not 
 been finally disposed of. Mrs. Baron's idea was to 
 await developments and so was Flora's. 
 
 Only Bonnie May violated the well-established 
 tradition of the household. 
 
 Early in the morning she encountered Flora, and 
 made occasion to engage her in a brief conversa- 
 tion. Flora was planning to go out with the Mc- 
 Kelvey girls after breakfast, and she held in her 
 hands the green-and-silver tailored skirt when 
 Bonnie May came upon her. She was regarding 
 it with the care and heartache of a young woman 
 in love with pretty things who has very few of 
 them, and she did not seem quite responsive when 
 the child began a somewhat extraordinary com- 
 mentary. 
 
 169
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 She scarcely heeded Bonnie May's introductory 
 words, but she did begin to pay attention when 
 she heard this: 
 
 "Of course I know I've got nothing to do with 
 the giving out of parts, but if I had, he'd strike me 
 just right for the role of the husband." 
 
 Miss Baron flushed. She knew just whom the 
 child meant, but she felt that she must pretend 
 to some measure of doubt. 
 
 "What in the world are you talking about?" 
 she asked. Her faint smile robbed her words of 
 sharpness. 
 
 "I think he's just the kind that would look well 
 to the people in the gallery, and to the people down 
 in the parquet, too. Mr. Addis." 
 
 Flora sat down in an aimless fashion, holding the 
 green-and-silver skirt across her knees. 
 
 "Do you think," she asked meditatively, "that 
 he would look well anywhere?" 
 
 "Do you mean, do I think he would look 
 ridic'lous, anywhere?" 
 
 Miss Baron leaned back and looked with a sort 
 of mournful joyousness at the ceiling. "You do 
 say such amazing things!" she declared. "To use 
 your word, You don't think he would look ridicu- 
 lous anywhere?" 
 
 "Never in the world!" was the emphatic re- 
 sponse. 
 
 "But you know he isn't at all Like well, like the 
 leading men in plays, for example." 
 
 170
 
 A Question of Reconstruction 
 
 "You mean what they call matinee idols?" 
 
 "Well, he's entirely different from them, isn't 
 he?" 
 
 "But you wouldn't want him to be like them, 
 would you ? " 
 
 Miss Baron shook her head slowly. "No, I 
 wouldn't. . . ." 
 
 "I'll tell you how he strikes me," said Bonnie 
 May. "If he came on the stage, the audience would 
 think it was the business manager, come to make an 
 announcement. You know the business manager is 
 the man who has the money sometimes; who pays 
 the hotel bills and finds out about train-tune, and 
 sees that your baggage is there ahead of you when 
 you get to the end of a trip. He's the real man 
 with the show. These fellas that look like fash- 
 ion-plates are all right as far as they go. But you 
 know once in a while the walking gets bad, and 
 then the wise guys are the ones that stand in with 
 the business manager." 
 
 She went away, nodding with emphasis, and 
 left Miss Baron to complete her toilet. 
 
 Beyond this brief interchange of words not a 
 word about Mr. Addis had been spoken when 
 Baron, immediately after breakfast, went away in 
 response to a telephone call from a newspaper 
 office. The Sunday editor had an idea for a special 
 article and, as it turned out, Baron was employed 
 down-town all day. 
 
 There was a "story" about an exhibit in one of 
 171
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 the art-galleries to write, and this he had done with 
 one of those intervals of ardor which characterized 
 him. 
 
 He had also called on Thornburg. He wanted 
 to know how the mysterious quest of Bonnie May 
 was progressing, and if the manager had learned 
 anything as a result of his response to the advertise- 
 ment in the Times. 
 
 But Thornburg had no information for him. 
 He had replied to the advertisement according to 
 his promise, he said, but he had received no re- 
 sponse. He admitted quite frankly that he had 
 permitted two days to pass before doing this. He 
 had been unusually busy. But he had attended to 
 the matter as soon as he had been able to find 
 time and nothing had come of it. 
 
 However, as Baron was leaving the manager's 
 office, Thornburg called him back. "By the way," 
 he said, "it is possible Mrs. Thornburg may have 
 something interesting to tell you. I just happened 
 to remember that she asked me to invite you up 
 to the house when I saw you. I believe she men- 
 tioned Bonnie May. Suppose you drop around as 
 soon as it's convenient." 
 
 On his way home that afternoon, Baron thought 
 of the manager's message and his manner, and 
 again he became suspicious. He couldn't help be- 
 lieving that Thornburg knew more than he ad- 
 mitted. But then, he concluded, perhaps he was 
 only innocently plotting to get possession of the 
 
 172
 
 A Question of Reconstruction 
 
 child for whom there now appeared to be no lawful 
 claimant. 
 
 When he reached home his mother was the first 
 person he encountered, and he surmised by her 
 manner that this circumstance was a result of her 
 own design and management. 
 
 "Anything wrong, mother?" he asked. He had 
 visions of kidnappers watching the house from 
 hidden points of vantage. 
 
 Mrs. Baron led the way into the dining-room and 
 took a seat in the bay window overlooking the 
 anaemic grass-plot. 
 
 "Yes entirely wrong," she responded. "Do you 
 know what this country had after the Civil War?" 
 
 "Of course. It had peace." 
 
 "It had reconstruction." 
 
 "Oh! reconstruction. Certainly." 
 
 "That's what I'm going to have in this house- 
 hold." 
 
 "All in favor of reconstruction will signify " 
 began Baron lightly. But his mother interrupted 
 him quite sharply. 
 
 "I don't intend to be annoyed any more by 
 that man Addis," she declared, a flush mounting 
 to her cheeks. 
 
 "Oh," said Baron, for the first time comprehend- 
 ing. "And my part in the the new order of things 
 is to begin snubbing him?" 
 
 "I don't care if you look at it in that way. I 
 don't intend he shall come here." 
 
 173
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Baron looked at her thoughtfully. "My diffi- 
 culty is," he said, "that I understand your posi- 
 tion, and his, too. And Flora's. Addis is an aw- 
 fully decent chap. I think you don't look at him 
 quite right. He's got lots of friends of the right 
 sort. Men friends. He doesn't go in for the oh, 
 the ladylike things. But he belongs to the hunt- 
 ing clubs, and some of the best commercial clubs, 
 and well, I'm sure he's every inch a man." 
 
 "So far as we're concerned, he's every inch a 
 grocer." 
 
 Baron winced. "Oh, mother!" he protested, 
 and after an interval of silence, "mother!" he ex- 
 claimed, "what are we? What am I? A loafer, 
 living off a woman's money; depending on my 
 parents; having no prospects of my own making. 
 There are times when I wish I had learned how 
 to be a grocer, or a blacksmith, or a carpenter, or 
 anything that would give me a place I could put 
 a label on. Honestly, I don't see that I've got 
 anything to make me look down on on any- 
 body." 
 
 Mrs. Baron was not at all impressed by this. 
 "I won't answer that sort of nonsense," she said. 
 "And as for Mr. Addis- 
 
 The door into the kitchen opened and Mrs. 
 Shepard stood revealed. Her brow was furrowed. 
 She looked beseechingly at Mrs. Baron. 
 
 "Yes, right away," said Mrs. Baron, rising. But 
 she paused and looked at her son again. "And 
 
 174
 
 A Question of Reconstruction 
 
 that that unruly child who's been letting him in. 
 She's to be taken in hand, too." 
 
 "Yes, mother?" 
 
 "As long as she's here you and Flora have got to 
 quit treating her as if she were a a fairy queen. 
 It's absurd. She's got to be restrained and and 
 enlightened." 
 
 "I'm quite willing to do my part. The trouble 
 is I've been too busy being enlightened by her to 
 do very much enlightening on my part." 
 
 "Well, she hasn't enlightened me at all. And 
 I'll be able to attend to her without a great deal of 
 aid. She's got to get down out of the clouds, to 
 real things." 
 
 "She doesn't seem to fit in with our kind of 
 realities, does she?" he conceded. And then he 
 smiled. "If it were only right to regard even chil- 
 dren simply as human beings! They have to be 
 themselves sooner or later. If it were only possible 
 to let them develop along that line from the 
 start!" 
 
 But the kitchen door had been opened by Mrs. 
 Shepard again this tune timorously and incom- 
 pletely and Mrs. Baron was gone. 
 
 Baron climbed two flights of stairs before he 
 came upon the object of his next search. Bonnie 
 May was in the attic. 
 
 She was all eagerness when she saw him. "Do 
 you know what happened to-day?" she began. 
 
 Baron stopped abruptly. "Happened!" he 
 
 175
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 echoed, unworded speculations again flooding his 
 mind. 
 
 "Oh, nothing wrong. It's just Mrs. Baron 
 gave me my first music lesson." 
 
 "Music lesson!" he echoed, and then: "Was 
 Ho* ail?" 
 
 "Isn't it enough?" She came close to him and 
 whispered: "I'm to be ' cultivated.' ' 
 
 He frowned. "I don't like the word. Who said 
 so?" 
 
 "I wouldn't mind about a word. Honestly, it 
 wasn't so bad. I've often thought I'd like to be 
 able to hit a few high spots on the piano. Some- 
 times a little thing like that means ever so much 
 to you. Imagine yourself having the lead in a play 
 with a lot of love-making in it. You have a line 
 like this to the leading man: 'You'll be like all 
 the rest. You'll forget me among all those gay 
 scenes.' Don't you see how much it helps if you 
 can say it sitting on a piano-stool, and winding up 
 by turning to the keyboard and trifling with it 
 softly? You don't need to play well. It wouldn't 
 do to play really well. Just a little, you know. 
 Absent-mindedly, with your head down. That's 
 what I want to be able to do." 
 
 Baron had pulled a chair close to the window. 
 "And so you took a music lesson?" he asked. He 
 was recalling the serenely inefficient manner in 
 which his mother played certain familiar hymns. 
 It did not occur to him that she would attempt to 
 
 176
 
 A Question of Reconstruction 
 
 teach Bonnie May anything but this class of music. 
 Indeed, he felt sure she would not have been able 
 to recall any other kind. "I'm glad you don't ob- 
 ject to it," he said. Presently he added, without 
 very much interest in the subject: "After all, some 
 of the old hymns are very pretty." 
 
 "Yes; but you know I'm not going to play 
 hymns." 
 
 "Oh, you're not! What does mother expect to 
 teach you, then?" 
 
 "At first she thought hymns would do; but 
 when I explained to her that I wouldn't care to 
 play them she said we could take up something 
 else." 
 
 Baron regarded her steadily. She was obviously 
 withholding something. "Bonnie May ! " he remon- 
 strated. "You didn't have another disagreement, 
 did you?" 
 
 "It was more like an argument and I must 
 say she behaved beautifully." 
 
 "And did you behave 'beautifully/ too?" 
 
 She had drawn her chair close to the window and 
 was looking out, so that he saw, chiefly, a small 
 shoulder and a profile which was quite eloquent of 
 independence and courage. "Yes, I think I did. 
 Of course, it was harder for me than for her. You 
 see, I had to be It, as the saying is. Yes, that's 
 how to express it. She had framed the game up, 
 and I had to be It." 
 
 "What what really happened?" 
 177
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "She began in that innocent way of hers. She 
 thought a little knowledge of music would be good 
 for me. I said yes to that. Yes, she went on, it 
 would be quite proper for me to learn to play some 
 of the simpler hymns. When she said 'hymns' " 
 
 She sat quite askew and laughed, and when 
 Baron made no response at all she became uneasy. 
 "You know you've got to protect yourself," she 
 insisted defiantly. 
 
 "Very well; and then what?" 
 
 "I told her it was so good of her to be willing 
 to teach me, but that well, I told her hymns 
 wouldn't do." 
 
 "Why wouldn't they do? They're music." 
 
 "It's like I told her. Hymns are all well enough 
 for persons who don't understand very well like 
 raised letters for the blind. But when Mrs. Shepard 
 lets me set the table, how would it sound if I kept 
 saying: 'I'm helping Mrs. Shepard! I'm helping 
 Mrs. Shepard!' She might be too polite to say 
 anything, but she'd be thinking: 'The gabby little 
 thing, why don't she just do it and let it go at that ?' 
 On the other hand, if I just did the best I could 
 without making out that I was the whole show, 
 she'd be apt to say: 'Bless her heart, she's really 
 helping.' I think singing hymns is about the same 
 thing. It's as if you kept saying : ' I'm praising God ! 
 I'm praising God!' It would be oh, bad taste. 
 But if you sang 'Annie Laurie,' or something like 
 that, you can imagine they'd bend their ears up 
 
 178
 
 A Question of Reconstruction 
 
 in the skies if they can hear that far and say: 
 'Isn't that nice?' That's what I said to Mrs. 
 Baron. Some spiel, wasn't it?" 
 
 Baron was glad that she turned to him for only 
 the briefest scrutiny. 
 
 "And what did mother say?" he wanted to 
 know. 
 
 "I thought she was going to have the curtain 
 let down for a minute. She looked so funny. But 
 you see, she knew I was right. Anybody could 
 see that. She stared at me. And I stared at her, 
 too only mine was different. Mine was what you 
 call a baby stare. Innocent, you know." She 
 turned to him again, and something in his eyes 
 checked her. "Oh, I know how that sounded to 
 you," she said with quick remonstrance. "You 
 never put things like that into words. But you 
 know very well everybody does have special ways 
 of looking when they want to. As if they didn't 
 understand, or as if they were surprised or weren't. 
 You have to do things like that. That's all I 
 meant." 
 
 "I think I understand," said Baron. 
 
 They remained silent for a time, and through 
 Baron's mind a single phrase kept running: "Like 
 raised letters for the blind." Wasn't cynicism, 
 wherever it existed, merely a protest by people of 
 refined taste against the inartistic forms which good- 
 ness often assumed? And hadn't he and his family 
 always paid far too little heed to the golden legends 
 
 179
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 of life, and too much to the desire to have them in 
 "raised letters"? 
 
 He was aroused by the voice of his companion; 
 by her voice and by the eagerness with which she 
 gazed at a little drama which was being enacted 
 down in the street. An enormous, red-faced beer- 
 driver had stopped his dray at the curb to chat 
 with a ruddy-cheeked, buxom girl with glossy black 
 hair, who was laughing up into his face. The two 
 powerful brewery horses stood patiently at rest, 
 their eyes harboring the placid expression of the 
 weary draft-horse that comes immediately when 
 a stop is made. 
 
 "Aren't they happy?" commented Bonnie May, 
 speaking as if from the indulgent summit of great 
 age. 
 
 "I don't know," Baron argued. "I shouldn't 
 think it very probable." 
 
 "But can't you see that they are?" 
 
 "Because they are laughing?" 
 
 "That and their eyes. The way they are look- 
 ing at each other is just as if they were patting 
 each other on the cheeks now, isn't it? I think 
 they are both just beautiful. They look as if they 
 were quite happy, and didn't care to be anything 
 else." 
 
 "Nonsense! Who ever heard of a beer-driver 
 being beautiful? And such an enormous creature, 
 and the kind of work he does, and and such 
 clothes!" 
 
 180
 
 'They look as if they were quite happy and didn't care 
 to be anything else."
 
 A Question of Reconstruction 
 
 Her brows contracted. "Aren't you prejudiced 
 against him just because well, maybe, because of 
 the kind of work he does?" 
 
 "I think maybe I am. I should think anybody 
 might be." 
 
 "I see. You was thinking something ugly about 
 him so, of course, he wouldn't look nice to you. 
 You see, I wasn't. I think maybe he does that 
 kind of work because he was never taught to do 
 anything else. If your work isn't lovely, I think 
 you deserve all the more credit, if you can be glad 
 while you're doing it." 
 
 "But don't you see people choose their work 
 they choose to be what they are." 
 
 "Not at all. I didn't. Did you?" 
 
 "And just see how how loud he is ! And notice 
 the color of his face and hands ! " 
 
 "Yes," she said. She continued to look crit- 
 ically, and her eyes were filled with joy when the 
 driver suddenly leaned back and laughed until the 
 sound reached them above the scores of other 
 noises. "That's because he laughs so much, and 
 is out in the sun and the weather most of the time. 
 I think he's lovely yes, I do. For my part, I'd 
 like to get up on the seat and ride with him. I'll 
 bet he would take good care of you. And you can 
 see that nice girl would, too." 
 
 "With a beer-driver!" exclaimed Baron, really 
 amazed. 
 
 She regarded him serenely. "Oh, a beer-driver," 
 181
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 she said. "I wouldn't think about that part of it 
 at all. I would have to know something about him 
 that really counted, if it came down to an argu- 
 ment. You're only thinking of his make-up. And, 
 my goodness ! I've seen many a Simon Legree go 
 into his dressing-room and change his clothes and 
 come out the nicest sort of a fellow. I've got a 
 hunch that if there is " She paused, shamefaced, 
 and then continued: "If there is somebody up in 
 the skies keeping tab somebody ^managing the 
 big stage the whole world, I mean he knows just 
 what we are, or ought to be, if the make-up wasn't 
 there to make us seem ugly and mean and hateful." 
 
 "But, look here! That isn't a make-up that 
 fellow down there has on; it's himself!" 
 
 "Not at all! What's the difference whether it is 
 the wardrobe mistress that hands you what you 
 have to wear, or or just accident? I mean the 
 way you happen to get started, and whatever it is 
 you have to do. You know what I mean." 
 
 "I know what you mean, well enough. But what 
 / mean is, why should you suppose that chap 
 down there didn't get just what he studied for 
 ^what he fitted himself for?" 
 
 "Because they give you a part and say: 'This 
 is your part/ and that's all there is to it." 
 
 "Oh, on the stage possibly. But what can you 
 see in that fellow that makes you think there's 
 anything to him that he'd be trustworthy, for 
 example?" 
 
 182
 
 A Question of Reconstruction 
 
 She leaned forward, wholly alert. "It's easy," 
 she declared. "See how he sits, with his feet square 
 on the dashboard, and with his head held up high 
 that way. That means he knows what he's about." 
 
 Baron felt himself getting red in the face. He 
 remembered his habit of sitting with his legs tangled 
 up when he was at his ease. Quite cautiously he 
 got himself into a more purposeful attitude. "Any- 
 thing else?" he asked. 
 
 The beer-driver was now driving away. 
 
 "Yes. Look at the way he is holding those 
 reins nice and straight and firm. The horses 
 know he's there, all right. They trust him. They 
 know him. Look at him now! It's just as if he 
 were saying to them: 'Take it easy, old fellows, 
 we're all here together. " ! 
 
 Baron leaned forward and watched the disap- 
 pearing dray. Yes, there was a certain method in 
 the man's way of holding the reins, and in his 
 whole bearing, which suggested just what the child 
 had put into words. 
 
 He leaned back and clasped his hands behind 
 his head and smiled. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Bonnie May anxiously. 
 
 "I'm afraid I couldn't explain to you. I was 
 just thinking about about certain forms of recon- 
 struction." 
 
 183
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 MRS. THORNBURG REVEALS A SECRET 
 
 BARON shook his head slowly. He had been think- 
 ing about that advertisement in the Times which 
 Thornburg had answered without any result. 
 
 "Strange," he mused. "I won't believe but that 
 somebody is looking for her somewhere. Chil- 
 dren like that are not dropped down and deserted 
 like superfluous kittens or puppies. There's some- 
 thing wrong somewhere." 
 
 Then he remembered that Mrs. Thornburg wished 
 to see him; that, according to Thornburg, she had 
 "mentioned Bonnie May." 
 
 Possibly she knew something. At any rate, 
 Baron felt that he ought to call on her. It was 
 just after the dinner-hour of the day on which 
 Mrs. Baron had announced her policy of recon- 
 struction and the evening was flinging a chal- 
 lenge to all mankind to get out of doors and enjoy 
 the spring air. 
 
 He took up his stick and hat and left the house. 
 
 He found Mrs. Thornburg sadly changed since 
 he had seen her last. She was unmistakably very 
 ill, though the only symptoms revealed to Baron's 
 
 184
 
 Mrs. Thornburg Reveals a Secret 
 
 inexpert eye were a pathetic thinness and pallor 
 and a profound lassitude. 
 
 She was alone, Thornburg having just gone out. 
 
 "It was good of you to come," she said when 
 Baron entered. She spoke as if she had been ex- 
 pecting him. And without circumlocution she con- 
 tinued: "I wanted to talk to you about the little 
 girl. You haven't let anybody have her, have 
 you?" 
 
 "No," replied Baron. Then he added lightly: 
 "I think we've changed our minds about letting 
 her go. It seems likely now that we'll keep her 
 with us indefinitely." 
 
 He was glad that her glance rested upon her 
 thin, clasped hands. He could note the effect of 
 his statement with a steady scrutiny which need 
 cause him no compunction. 
 
 To his surprise she seemed quite pleased. "It 
 makes me glad to know that she is to be with nice 
 people," she said, lifting to him now a softly grate- 
 ful glance. She explained: "You see, I'm sure 
 I'm too ill to have her now, even if. . . ." Her 
 lips trembled and her eyes filled. 
 
 "But you'll be better," said Baron, reading her 
 thought. Clearly she had despaired of ever being 
 any better. "When you're able to have her, she'll 
 be so happy to visit you. I mean Bonnie May. 
 She's a wonderfully sociable little creature. If 
 she were invited to come to see you she would be 
 delighted. Attentions like that such as you would 
 
 185
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 pay to grown people have a wonderful effect 
 upon her." 
 
 "Yes. . . . And of course some day she will be 
 coming here to stay." 
 
 "You mean Baron was surprised that his 
 suggestion had been received with a dully uttered, 
 enigmatic remark, rather than gratitude or eager- 
 ness. 
 
 "You don't know what I mean by that?" There 
 was regret in her tone, reluctance in her glance- 
 as if she knew he was not dealing honestly and 
 frankly by her. 
 
 "No, truly, I don't." 
 
 "Ah, well. . . . But I wanted to tell you why 
 I was so eager to have her when you called before. 
 You see, I wanted to to atone. ..." 
 
 She sat listlessly, lost in troubled memories, and 
 Baron waited. 
 
 "Mr. Thornburg came to me one time, in the one 
 moment of his greatest need, and asked me to help 
 him. And I failed him." 
 
 She leaned back and closed her eyes for a mo- 
 ment, and Baron thought how out of harmony she 
 was: the ailing woman whose whole being was in 
 a minor key, amid surroundings which suggested 
 only sturdiness and well-being. 
 
 "He was always generous toward me, and pa- 
 tient. He was always giving, giving, and never 
 asking. I think I got used to that and just took 
 it for granted. And then one day he came home, 
 
 186
 
 Mrs. Thornburg Reveals a Secret 
 
 excited, as happy as a child . . . and asked me. . . . 
 It was such a little thing . . . and I refused. 
 
 "You know, he had been married when I first 
 met him. An actress. It didn't last long. She 
 got tired of the life and wanted to go back to the 
 stage. I think she appealed to his generosity. It 
 would have been easy to do that. At any rate, 
 he allowed her to go away and take their little girl. 
 I can't understand how he brought himself to let 
 the little daughter go, too. I have an idea he was 
 so troubled because she wanted to go that he didn't 
 realize how much the child meant to him, or would 
 come to mean. She was only a year old then. I 
 never blamed him for that episode in his life. I 
 just concluded that the woman was worthless. And 
 when I married him we didn't speak of his other 
 marriage nothing in connection with it. It was 
 just as if it hadn't happened. Then, after a year, 
 or about a year, he he made the one request of 
 me. The mother had offered to give him the little 
 girl. He wanted to bring her to me, to have her in 
 our home. 
 
 "And that made me jealous and unhappy. I 
 can't explain ... or defend myself. I could 
 scarcely answer him when he spoke about it. And 
 when I didn't answer he looked at me, and after 
 a little a strange expression came into his eyes. 
 He was chilled and bewildered. He had been so 
 happy. He couldn't understand. He just gave 
 it up, and the next day he was trying to pretend 
 
 187
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 that nothing had come between us; that I hadn't 
 been ungracious and cruel. 
 
 "You see, I was thinking of her child, and he was 
 thinking of his own. Mine was the woman's the 
 narrow point of view, and his was the father's. 
 Maybe you can understand a little of what I felt. I 
 couldn't have the child here in the house, while 
 its own mother. ... It would have been like 
 giving her a place in our home the woman, I 
 mean. You can't really separate people by putting 
 their bodies in different places. You see what I 
 mean?" 
 
 "Yes,'' assented Baron, "I think I see quite 
 clearly." 
 
 "And I was sure she was a bad woman. And I 
 felt that if her child were in the house, her her 
 real self would be here, too. Her influence, I mean. 
 Bodies are not everything. Sometimes they're 
 even the least things of all. I was afraid that other 
 woman's very presence would be here among us 
 on the most sacred occasions: at bedtime, to see 
 if her child were covered up, and in the early hours 
 of Christmas morning, jealously looking to see what 
 we'd given her, and jealous of us, because we were 
 fond of her. She would be a real influence in the 
 house. It couldn't be helped." 
 
 "But a bad woman. . . . Surely a bad woman 
 would forget," suggested Baron. 
 
 "Well, not our kind of a woman, anyway. How 
 could she have deserted a man who was good to 
 
 1 88
 
 Mrs. Thornburg Reveals a Secret 
 
 her? And how could she consent to give up her 
 child afterward? It might be right for her to 
 leave her husband; but for a mother to give up a 
 little daughter. . . . No, I couldn't think of hav- 
 ing here in our home a link to bind us with a woman 
 like that a life out in the unknown, on the streets 
 that are strange to us, that are strange to all faith- 
 ful, happy people. 
 
 "And then when it was too late I began to see 
 his side of it. He was the father just as much as 
 she was the mother. She was his child as much as 
 hers more, if he loved her more. And I began to 
 realize what it must be to a father to have his little 
 daughter away from him, perhaps not loved and 
 provided for, possibly facing an evil future. Oh, 
 the night that thought came to me ! And always 
 he was so kind to me, and patient. He did not 
 speak of his daughter again. And I waited. . . . 
 I knew he would speak again some day, and I 
 wanted to grow strong enough to say to him 
 honestly: 'Ah, do bring her, and she shall have 
 love here, here in her own home' ..." 
 
 She lifted her hands to her cheeks and closed her 
 eyes. It was as if she must shut out some of the 
 impressions which crowded into her mind. 
 
 Baron waited until a measure of calm came upon 
 her. " And he never did ? " 
 
 She opened her eyes and regarded him inquiringly. 
 
 "I mean, he never spoke of her again?" 
 
 She regarded him with a smouldering look in her 
 189
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 eyes. Then she leaned forward, her hands gripping 
 the arms of her chair. "I honestly believe you 
 don't know ! " she whispered. 
 
 And in an instant she had taken from a little 
 box on the table near which she sat an envelope. 
 She drew from it a single sheet and passed it to 
 Baron. 
 
 He turned a little, so that the light from the 
 table fell upon it and read: 
 
 "Do be good to the little girl your husband has brought 
 to you. You ought to be, because he is her father." 
 
 There was no name. Baron handed the sheet 
 back to her. He was thinking hard. "Who could 
 have written it?" he asked. 
 
 "Of course you realize that I don't know" she 
 replied. "Do you mean to ask me what I think?" 
 
 "Well, what do you think?" 
 
 "I think her mother wrote it. I think she must 
 have lost track of the child, and concluded that 
 Mr. Thornburg had taken her. I think she must 
 have known of my my jealousy on that other 
 occasion. I think she wrote this note hoping that 
 I would refuse to have the child in the house if I 
 knew who she was. It seems plain that she wants 
 her now." 
 
 Baron was examining the date of the postmark 
 on the envelope. She saw that furrows were gather- 
 ing on his forehead. 
 
 She explained: "It came some time ago. I had 
 it with me here when you called that first time." 
 
 190
 
 Mrs. Thornburg Reveals a Secret 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Baron. "And you knew, 
 then- 
 
 "Yes, I knew then." 
 
 "But you haven't ... Mr. Thornburg. . . ." 
 
 "I dicln't show him this. He doesn't know. 
 Surely you can understand. He has acted a lie, 
 in trying to get the little girl into the house with- 
 out telling me about her. And I can't blame him 
 for that, after what happened that other time. 
 But I can't bear to let him know that that I 
 know." 
 
 "But don't you see, if Bonnie May is really his 
 daughter, and if he weren't afraid to tell you so, 
 he could bring her here without any further hin- 
 derance!" 
 
 "No, he couldn't. Not if the mother wants 
 her." 
 
 Baron arose. "After all, it's largely guesswork 
 conclusions reached in the dark," he said. "You've 
 received an anonymous note. That's all the founda- 
 tion you have for what you've told me. And people 
 who write anonymous letters. . . ." 
 
 He reflected dubiously, and then he came to a 
 decision. 
 
 "I've reason to believe," he said, "that there is 
 good ground for you to reject what's in that note." 
 
 She leaned forward, observing him intently. 
 
 Baron was remembering the actress who had 
 called on Thornburg; the woman who, almost cer- 
 tainly, was she who had taken the child into 
 
 191
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Thornburg's theatre. He was recalling his question 
 to the manager, and the latter's vehement, prompt 
 response. 
 
 "You mean," questioned Mrs. Thornburg, "that 
 you don't think Bonnie May is really . . . that 
 you don't believe it was her mother who wrote 
 this note?" 
 
 "It's difficult to be quite sure of anything," 
 said Baron, "but I would stake a great deal on 
 that one thing being true that it wasn't Bonnie 
 May's mother who wrote that anonymous note." 
 
 192
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 "A KIND OF DUEL" 
 
 THAT night in his attic room Baron arrived, by 
 perfectly logical reasoning, at two conclusions, 
 each of which was precisely the opposite of the 
 other. 
 
 The first of these conclusions was that he had a 
 perfect right to shape Bonnie May's future ac- 
 cording to his own inclination. The second was 
 that he had no right at all to do such a thing. 
 
 He arrived at the first conclusion in this manner: 
 
 He had made an honest effort to locate any 
 person or persons having a legal and just claim on 
 the child, and he had failed. If the Thornburgs 
 had any claim upon her, it was not his fault that 
 they had bungled their affairs until they were un- 
 willing to make their claim public. 
 
 Therefore he had a right to have and to hold 
 Bonnie May, and to regard her, if not as his own, 
 at least as a permanent member of the house- 
 hold. 
 
 His second and contrary opinion began to shape 
 itself when he recalled the picture of Mrs. Thorn- 
 burg, helpless and despairing, greatly desiring the 
 
 193
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 presence of the child in her own home in order that 
 she might complete a great moral victory over 
 herself. 
 
 A man couldn't oppose his claims and advan- 
 tages to a need like that ! 
 
 Besides it was borne in upon Baron more and 
 more strongly there was a very serious question 
 as to the child's best interests. 
 
 She was an actress, born and bred, and some 
 day she would surely hear the call of the theatre. 
 Not in the near future certainly. Baron couldn't 
 bear to associate children and the stage. But in 
 a few years. . . . 
 
 And if she were ever to return to the profession 
 which was her birthright, it was Thornburg she 
 would need, and not the Barons. 
 
 Moreover, Thornburg was a wealthy man, and 
 childless. He was now ready to take the child 
 into his home as his own. There could be only 
 one outcome to such an arrangement an outcome 
 wholly in Bonnie May's favor. 
 
 Therefore, his Baron's right to keep the child 
 was of the shakiest possible nature. 
 
 And having reached these two conclusions, dwell- 
 ing now upon the one and now upon the other, 
 Baron extinguished his light and went to bed. 
 
 In the morning at about seven o'clock, while 
 he was standing before the glass with a military 
 hair-brush in his hand, his problem was solved 
 
 194
 
 "A Kind of Duel" 
 
 for him in a flash. He stood with the brush sus- 
 pended in air. A light leaped into his eyes. 
 
 "How simple!" he exclaimed. "The very way 
 out of it. The only way." 
 
 At three o'clock that afternoon he entered Thorn- 
 burg's private office, after having taken the pre- 
 caution of ascertaining (ist) that Thornburg had 
 returned from luncheon in a fairly good humor, 
 and (2d) that the manager was alone. 
 
 "You know I had a little talk with Mrs. Thorn- 
 burg about Bonnie May last night," he began, 
 when Thornburg had thrust a chair toward him. 
 He was assuming his most casual manner, primarily 
 because it suited his present purpose, and also 
 because he had not failed to note that Thornburg's 
 face had darkened slightly at sight of him. 
 
 "Yes, I know." The manager glanced at his 
 desk as if he were a very busy man. 
 
 "I felt the least bit up a tree, as the fellow said, 
 after I had talked to her," continued Baron. "You 
 know I want to to be decent about things." 
 
 "Of course," agreed the manager, giving part of 
 his attention to the papers which were strewn about 
 his desk. "And I suppose the child is a good deal 
 of a burden ' 
 
 He glanced up, and Baron wondered why a man 
 shouldn't be able to keep the light of triumph out 
 of his eyes when he really tried to. 
 
 "Not at all!" he interrupted blandly. 
 
 195
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 " or that you are sure she will be, when the 
 
 novelty of having her about wears off." He squared 
 about sharply, with the air of a man who means 
 to do something handsome. "I'm still ready to 
 take her, if you decide that you'd like to give her 
 up. Of course, I don't know how soon I might 
 change my mind. In case Mrs. Thornburg loses 
 interest, I'd be through with the case, naturally." 
 
 He turned to his desk again and examined a 
 letter which came uppermost, frowning and purs- 
 ing his lips as if he were giving it deep considera- 
 tion. 
 
 Baron did not wholly succeed in repressing a 
 smile. "All wrong," he said amiably. "The Greeks 
 must have borne gifts to you before now, Thornburg. 
 No, I'm not tired of her. I'm not likely to be, 
 either. Why, she's like a tonic. Sense? You 
 wouldn't believe it. She's forever surprising you 
 by taking some familiar old idea and making you 
 really see it for the first time. She can stay at 
 our house until the roof falls in, if she only will- 
 though of course I don't hope she'd be willing to. 
 But don't think there's any question of our getting 
 tired of her. She's not that kind. I might add, 
 neither are we." 
 
 Much to his amazement Thornburg sprang to 
 his feet excitedly. 
 
 "I don't know what you're getting at!" he ex- 
 claimed. "If you've got anything to say, why not 
 say it and be done with it?" 
 
 196
 
 "I don't know what you're getting at !" he exclaimed. "If 
 you've got anything to say, why not say it and be done 
 with it?"
 
 "A Kind of Duel" 
 
 Baron arose, too. He thought he was justified 
 in feeling offended. "I think," he said quietly, 
 "I haven't got anything to say, after all." He 
 managed to keep his voice and eyes under control. 
 These proclaimed no unfriendliness. But his lips 
 had become somewhat rigid. 
 
 "But you did have," retorted Thornburg. He 
 sat down again and produced a handkerchief with 
 which he wiped his face and neck nervously. 
 "Come, don't pay any attention to my bad man- 
 ners. You know I've got a thousand things to 
 worry me." 
 
 "Yes, I know. I'm really trying to help or I 
 had the thought of helping. You you make it a 
 bit difficult." 
 
 "There was something about the little girl," 
 said Thornburg. 
 
 "Yes. As to her status. Chapter I the in- 
 quiry for her, and our little flurry seems to be 
 completed." 
 
 "They probably didn't care about her very 
 much."' 
 
 "Well possibly. At any rate, we seem to have 
 come to a full stop for the tune being. And I've 
 been thinking about the future. I ought to tell 
 you that after my talk with Mrs. Thornburg, the 
 case didn't seem quite so simple as it had seemed." 
 
 Thornburg, clasping his knee in his hands, was 
 bending upon the floor a gaze darkened by labored 
 thought. / 
 
 197
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "I've begun to feel a kind of moral responsibility. 
 At first I thought only of my own point of view. 
 My family's, I mean. Our interests and pleasures. 
 But you see there's also something to be said from 
 the standpoint of our our guest. I wouldn't 
 want to lessen her chances of future happiness. I 
 wouldn't want to have my way altogether and 
 then find out after a while that it had been the 
 wrong way. I never realized before how much 
 the people of the stage are born and not made. 
 That's the gist of the matter. There will come a 
 time when nothing hi the world is going to keep 
 Bonnie May off the stage. That's my conviction 
 now." 
 
 "They say children do inherit " interposed 
 Thornburg. 
 
 "The question of her future stumps you a bit. 
 It's not as if she were like any other little girl I ever 
 heard of. It's like this: I'd like to have a skylark 
 in a cage, if it would sing for me. But I'd never 
 be able to forget that its right place was in the 
 sky. You see what I mean. I don't want to be 
 wholly responsible for keeping Bonnie May out 
 of the sky." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "My ideas aren't exactly definite. But I want 
 her to be free. I want her to have a part in work- 
 ing things out the way she wants them." 
 
 "That's good sense. Turn her over to me, then." 
 
 "That's not the idea at all. I think up to a 
 198
 
 "A Kind of Duel" 
 
 certain point it may be good for her to experience 
 the the gentle tyrannies which are part of her 
 life with us. On the other hand, if she becomes 
 identified with you (I don't know just what other 
 word to use), and you get to be fond of her, why 
 then in a material sense. . . . Oh, I don't like 
 the tone of that at all. But you'll get the idea, 
 and take it for granted that what I'm trying to get 
 at is that I don't want to stand in Bonnie May's 
 light." 
 
 Baron tried to join the manager in the latter's 
 impatient laugh. "You'll have to excuse my dense- 
 ness," said Thornburg. "I get your meaning as 
 easy as I can see into a pocket. The way it sounds 
 to me is that you're sure you want to keep her, 
 and that you're just as sure that you don't want 
 to keep her." 
 
 "That's nearly it," admitted Baron, flushing 
 slightly. "Suppose I say that I want to keep her 
 a part of the time, and that I'd like you to keep 
 her the other part. Suppose I offer to share her 
 with you: to encourage her to visit Mrs. Thorn- 
 burg a day at a time days at a time a week at 
 a tune. Suppose we take her on a kind of partner- 
 ship basis. No unfair influence; no special induce- 
 ments. Suppose I make it plain to her that you 
 and Mrs. Thornburg are her real friends, and that 
 you will be glad to have her come as often as she 
 likes, and stay as long as she likes." 
 
 Thornburg's eyes were beginning to brighten. 
 199
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Would you," added Baron, "do the same thing 
 by us? I mean, would you encourage her to come 
 to us when she felt like it, and see that she had the 
 chance to go as freely as she came?" 
 
 Thornburg's flushed face was all good-nature 
 now. The little barriers which he had kept be- 
 tween his visitor and himself fell away completely. 
 
 "A kind of duel between us," he elaborated, "to 
 see which of us has the best attractions to offer?" 
 
 "Well yes, you might put it that way, I sup- 
 pose. That's a theatrical phrase, I believe. Per- 
 haps it wouldn't have occurred to me. At any 
 rate, the plan I've outlined would give her a chance 
 to do a little deciding on her own account. It 
 would give her a chance to give her affections to 
 those who win them. It would place some of the 
 responsibility for her future on her own shoulders. 
 And whatever conclusions she came to I'd be will- 
 ing to bank on." 
 
 "That," declared Thornburg with enthusiasm, 
 "is what I call the proposition of a first-class sport." 
 He extended his hand to Baron. "You stick to 
 your part of the bargain and I'll play fair to the 
 letter." 
 
 He would have shown Baron out of the office, 
 then. He had a taste for suitable climaxes, too. 
 But Baron lingered, chiefly because he didn't like 
 the prospect of an almost mischievous conflict 
 which the manager seemed to welcome and to 
 anticipate. 
 
 200
 
 "A Kind of Duel" 
 
 "She can be loyal to us all," he said, "if she's 
 encouraged in being." 
 
 At the sound of his own words he fell to think- 
 ing. 
 
 No, she wouldn't need to be encouraged. She 
 would be loyal without that. There was nothing to 
 fear on that score at all. 
 
 He looked up rather whimsically. "Well, I'll 
 tell her," he said. 
 
 "You'll tdl her " 
 
 "That she has been invited to visit Mr. and Mrs. 
 Thornburg, and make herself quite at home." 
 
 201
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 MRS. BARON TAKES UP THE GAUNTLET 
 
 HAVING decided upon what he conceived to be an 
 admirable plan of action, Baron was unwilling to 
 believe that he ought to be in any hurry to execute 
 his plan. 
 
 For the time being Bonnie May was getting 
 along very well indeed. In fact, Baron made a 
 point of looking into this matter with a good deal 
 of thoroughness, from a somewhat new angle, and 
 he was greatly pleased by what he discovered. 
 
 Little by little the child had become habituated 
 to the home atmosphere. This, of course, was 
 due largely to the fact that the other members of 
 the family had become habituated to having her 
 about. They no longer felt constrained to utter 
 pleasant nothings, or to hold their tongues, be- 
 cause of her presence. When they forgot her 
 "strangeness," she ceased to be strange. 
 
 She obediently and even intelligently attended 
 when Mrs. Baron gave her her lesson on the piano. 
 
 "Though I think," she confided to Baron on one 
 occasion, "I could get hold of the high places with- 
 out going through all the funny business she seems 
 to regard so highly." 
 
 202
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 Baron spoke in defense of the "funny business," 
 and presently she agreed with him. 
 
 The guest's wardrobe had been made gloriously 
 complete, and in this relationship another pleasant 
 development was to be noted. 
 
 Bonnie May had been painfully accustomed to 
 the use of trunks. Now she made the acquaintance 
 of bureau drawers, and her delight was unbounded. 
 She spent hours in arranging her things. She won 
 Flora's genuine applause by her skill and taste in 
 this matter. 
 
 Flora bought her a hat. 
 
 She looked at it in a queerly detached manner 
 for an instant. "Oh, a hat," she commented. She 
 might have been repeating a word spoken by a 
 travel-lecturer, describing some interesting place 
 which did not seem to concern her. ^ It appeared 
 that she never had owned a hat. 
 
 She put it on before the glass. " Oh ! " she cried. 
 She thrust impulsive arms about Flora's neck and 
 hugged her. 
 
 Flora enjoyed that experience so much that she 
 bought another hat which she described as "un- 
 made." Ribbons of gay colors, and white lace, and 
 little silk flowers of various hues, came with it, and 
 the child was given these materials to experiment 
 with as she pleased. Flora gave advice, and was 
 ready with assistance. 
 
 Again the result was interesting. Bonnie May 
 experienced a joy which was rapt, almost tremulous 
 
 203
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 in quality. A desert-bred bird, coming upon an 
 oasis, might have regarded its surroundings with 
 the same incredulous rapture. 
 
 Baron's room became hers permanently, and 
 here she developed a keen delight in "housekeep- 
 ing." Here also she received Mrs. Baron and 
 Flora as guests, and amazed them by her perform- 
 ance of the part of hostess. 
 
 "I call it nonsense," declared Mrs. Baron to 
 Flora, after the two had paid a formal call. But 
 her face was flushed with happiness and her voice 
 was unwontedly soft. 
 
 "Not nonsense," responded Flora; "it's just 
 happiness." 
 
 She spent whole afternoons with Mrs. Shepard 
 in the kitchen and dining-room. She learned how 
 to bake little cakes. 
 
 It became her duty by her own request to 
 set the table, and upon this task she expended the 
 most earnest thought. 
 
 Baron commented upon this on one occasion. 
 "Ah, you're not an artist, after all. You're a 
 Gretchen," he said. 
 
 "But everything about the table is so pretty 
 and nice," she responded. "It's as elegant as a 
 table in a play, and ever so much more sensible. 
 You know something always happens when you 
 sit down to a table on the stage. A servant comes 
 in and says: 'Beg pardon, mum, but there's a gentle- 
 man he says he's your uncle from Green Bay' 
 
 204
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 and then everybody gets up in a hurry, because 
 the uncle is supposed to believe his niece has a lot 
 of children he's been helping to support, when she 
 hasn't got any at all. Or something like that." 
 
 In brief, there were a hundred accumulating 
 evidences to prove that Bonnie May in the Baron 
 household was the right individual in the right 
 place. 
 
 It is true that Mrs. Baron did not forget how 
 Thornburg had called on a certain night to take 
 the child away, and how she had given him to 
 understand she supposed that she would expect 
 him back on the same errand some other time. 
 And Baron could not free his mind of the fact that 
 he had voluntarily entered into a compact by 
 which his guest must sooner or later be lost to the 
 household at least a part of the tune. 
 
 But these were matters which were not dis- 
 cussed in the family. 
 
 A week passed two weeks, and Baron hadn't 
 seen Thornburg or communicated with him. One 
 day in June the thermometer shot up in real mid- 
 summer fashion, and the audiences in most of the 
 theatres were such that all the shrewd managers 
 became listless and absent-minded. The "regular 
 
 season" was over. 
 
 Thornburg closed his theatre and turned his 
 attention to a summer resort where there was an 
 opportunity to launch an al fresco entertainment 
 scheme. "Everybody was leaving town." There 
 
 205
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 remained only the uncounted thousands for whom 
 some lighter form of entertainment must be pro- 
 vided. 
 
 The flight of time, the inevitable march of events, 
 brought to Baron a realization of the fact that 
 there was a promise he must keep. And so one day, 
 during an hour in the attic, he spoke to Bonnie 
 May. 
 
 She didn't seem to pay any attention at all to 
 his preliminary words. It slowly dawned upon her 
 that what Baron was saying concerned her in a 
 special way. 
 
 "... people you will be interested in, I am 
 sure," Baron was saying. "Thornburg, the name 
 is." He glanced at her; but the name had made 
 no impression. "Mrs. Thornburg is not very 
 strong, and a cheerful visit ought to be just the 
 thing to help her. Mr. Thornburg is a theatrical 
 man. Why, it was his theatre I met you in. They 
 have a beautiful home." 
 
 "Oh, that makes me think," was all the reply 
 he received. "What became of the man who had 
 a play?" 
 
 "Eh a play?" 
 
 "You remember when I first came. He had 
 the first act and read it to you in the library, and 
 I had to go to bed." 
 
 " Oh Baggot. He's probably forgotten all about 
 it by this time. Or writing another that he'll never 
 finish." 
 
 206
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 She shook her head, unconvinced. "He was so 
 enthusiastic," she objected. 
 
 So for the time being there was an end to the dis- 
 cussion of her visit to the Thornburgs. 
 
 Another week passed, and then Baron had an 
 extraordinarily busy day. 
 
 In the forenoon came a letter from one of the 
 dramatic editors for whom Baron had done special 
 work occasionally. 
 
 "They are launching some sort of a dramatic 
 stock enterprise out at Fairyland to-night," the 
 letter ran, "and I'm hoping you can do it for me. 
 Thornburg is managing it. I don't hope it will 
 be much as a dramatic proposition, but you might 
 be able to get some readable impressions. Please 
 let me know." 
 
 A later mail brought a communication from 
 Thornburg. 
 
 The sight of the manager's signature brought 
 Baron up with a jerk but he was reassured by the 
 first few lines. Thornburg wasn't charging him 
 with bad faith. Instead, he was enclosing an order 
 for an unlimited number of seats for the Fairyland 
 opening. 
 
 "I understand," ran a pencilled line by way of 
 postscript and explanation, "that you are to rep- 
 resent the Times to-night." 
 
 Also there was a letter from Baggot. Baggot's 
 play had reached a stage where it needed Baron's 
 
 207
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 inspection. The budding playwright asked no 
 questions. He merely declared his intention of 
 calling that night. 
 
 Baron went up into the attic to look at the morn- 
 ing paper. He wanted to know what they were 
 doing out at Fairyland, and who was doing it. 
 
 And while he noted one impressive name after 
 another, he was arrested by an altogether amazing 
 sound down in his mother's sitting-room. Mrs. 
 Baron had been giving Bonnie May her music 
 lesson, and now, the lesson done, she was singing 
 for her pupil. 
 
 The thin old voice faltered on some of the notes, 
 but the words came clear enough: 
 
 "... She's all the world to me, 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie ..." 
 
 Baron smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "What was it," he mused, "about a plan of 
 reconstruction?" 
 
 Then he went down-stairs to telephone his ac- 
 ceptance to the man on the Times. 
 
 Baggot he completely forgot. 
 
 When Baron entered the dining-room at dinner- 
 time that evening Flora looked at him with mild 
 surprise. 
 
 "All dressed up and nowhere to go," said she. 
 
 "But there is somewhere to go. I'm going to 
 208
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 write up the Fairyland opening. Would you like 
 to go with me?" 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 It was clearly understood that Baron's question 
 had been put in a spirit of jest. It was understood 
 that Flora and her kind did not go to the Fairy- 
 lands and their kind. 
 
 But Bonnie May failed to grasp the situation. 
 
 "What's Fairyland?" she inquired. 
 
 "A large enclosure occupied entirely by mad 
 people, and with a theatre in one corner." 
 
 She ignored the reference to mad people. " Oh ! 
 a theatre. What are they playing?" 
 
 "A piece called 'The Second Mrs. Tanqueray/ ' 
 said Baron. 
 
 She sat up, swiftly erect, and clasped her hands. 
 "How fine!" was her comment. "Do you think 
 you could take me?" 
 
 "I should say not!" Baron responded without 
 thinking. His imthinking refusal was a result of 
 the habitual Baron attitude. But as he regarded 
 her thoughtfully, and noted the puzzled inquiry 
 in her glance, he couldn't quite understand why 
 he had been so emphatic, so confident of being 
 right. "It's not a play a little girl would care for," 
 he added, now on the defensive. 
 
 She smiled indulgently. "The idea! I mean, 
 anybody would be interested in it." 
 
 "What's it about?" challenged Baron. 
 
 "A lady who died because they were unkind to 
 209
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 her even the people who loved her. It's about a 
 lot of snobs and a a human being." She spoke 
 with feeling. She sensed the fact that again she 
 was being required to stand alone. 
 
 Baron frowned. "How in the world did you find 
 out anything about a play like that?" 
 
 "Miss Barry did it in Denver one time when 
 she was with a stock company. I can't understand 
 why you speak as if there was something wrong 
 about it. I think it's great. You can cry like any- 
 thing when you see it because it seems as if what 
 happens couldn't have been helped. It isn't one 
 of those things that's been screwed around to make 
 everybody feel as if they'd been eating caramels. 
 You remember it ! " 
 
 Baron, Sr., engaged in carving the roast, twinkled 
 somewhat darkly. 
 
 "You might get her to shape your criticism for 
 you, Victor," he suggested. 
 
 "I don't know if the editor would stand for 
 1 screwed around,'" said Baron, "but upon my 
 soul, I think she's right." 
 
 "Well, don't you think you could take me, then?" 
 asked Bonnie May. 
 
 "It really isn't possible. You see, I must hurry 
 down to the office right after the performance to 
 write it, you know." 
 
 The child leaned toward Mrs. Baron, a very 
 real shadow trembling on her face. "Couldn't you 
 go, so you could bring me home?" she asked. Her 
 
 210
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 voice was nearly inaudible, through fear of dis- 
 appointment. "I haven't been for such a long tune. 
 You can't think how dearly I'd like to go." 
 
 Mrs. Baron was provoked by the child's intense 
 earnestness. "Oh impossible!" she said. She 
 noted the look of despair in Bonnie May's eyes. 
 " There wouldn't be enough tickets, anyway," she 
 added weakly. 
 
 Baron leaned back in his chair as if he had lost 
 his appetite. What was the matter with them all, 
 anyway, that they were afraid to get down into the 
 crowd once in a while ? Plenty of really nice people 
 went to all manner of places in search of novelty, 
 for diversion, in order to get into touch with man- 
 kind. He had spoken of mad persons out at Fairy- 
 land. That was merely a silly cynicism. They 
 weren't any madder than other people. Surely 
 they were saner, since they were willing to enjoy 
 the best that life afforded. 
 
 "I've got plenty of seats, mother," he said. He 
 returned to ,his dinner, smiling somewhat mali- 
 ciously. 
 
 "Victor!" exclaimed Mrs. Baron. She flushed 
 angrily. "You know very well I won't go to such 
 a place." 
 
 Bonnie May's voice trailed away to a whisper 
 almost to a whimper. "Nice people can go any- 
 where they want to go," she said. "It's only silly 
 people who need to be afraid, because they don't 
 know how to think for themselves." 
 
 211
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 She tried very hard to eat her dinner then, and 
 to say no more. But presently she said, faintly, 
 "Please excuse me," and ran, weeping in true 
 childish abandon, from the room. 
 
 It was the first time she had really lost control 
 over herself ! 
 
 Baron, Sr., was the first to speak. "She's only a 
 child," he said, as if anything more would be super- 
 fluous. 
 
 An ensuing silence was broken by the sound of 
 the telephone-bell, and Mrs. Baron was glad to 
 respond, as a means of putting the finishing touches 
 to an uncomfortable episode. 
 
 But the telephone seemed only to create other 
 difficulties. The group at the table were quite at 
 a loss to know what could have brought such an 
 extraordinary sharpness into Mrs. Baron's voice. 
 She was soon grasping the receiver angrily, and 
 they heard her saying, with uncomfortable inter- 
 vals between her words and phrases: "To-night? 
 Bonnie May? Mr. Baron? Why should he do 
 anything of the kind? No, I don't understand at 
 all. No. ..." She turned around in quick dis- 
 pleasure. "Victor," she appealed, "will you see 
 what they want ? " 
 
 And Baron hurried to the phone and took up the 
 broken conversation. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Thornburg!" he began. Then, after 
 a pause, "Yes, that was the understanding. There 
 wasn't any definite time set " A pause. "Yes, 
 
 212
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 I know he is. I'm going out there, too." Another 
 pause, and then, "Well, I suppose it might be 
 managed. I'll ask her. I promised we both 
 agreed that she should do as she pleased " 
 
 He turned back to the table with a brave attempt 
 at briskness. But the inquiring glances bent upon 
 him were disconcerting. 
 
 Mrs. Baron went and unceremoniously hung up 
 the receiver. She had, it seemed, understood quite 
 accurately what the person at the other end of 
 the phone had been saying. 
 
 "It's an invitation for Bonnie May," said Baron, 
 trying to shake off the feeling that he was a guilty 
 wretch. "Mrs. Thornburg particularly wishes her 
 to come over this evening, because she's to be alone." 
 
 "Well!" was Mrs. Baron's comment. "Why 
 should she go over there, I'd like to know?" 
 
 Baron hesitated. "The fact is, I entered into a 
 sort of compact with Thornburg " 
 
 "Yes, I gathered something of the kind," said 
 Mrs. Baron angrily. "I suppose I have nothing 
 to say, one way or another." 
 
 "It was when you were still of the belief that 
 Bonnie May couldn't be quite comfortable with 
 us, and Thornburg ... I don't think I was 
 wholly unjustified in what I promised. You re- 
 member you said that as soon as she could be got 
 ready " He was floundering painfully now, with 
 the eyes of everybody in the room turned upon 
 him accusingly. "Mrs. Thornburg says she has 
 
 213
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 a room ready, specially fitted up for her, and she 
 only asks that she may spend the night " 
 
 Mrs. Baron had a vision of that room that had 
 been "specially fitted up" for the child, who was 
 now away somewhere grieving because she had 
 been refused a greatly coveted privilege. No doubt 
 the Thornburg woman had spent whole weeks and 
 no end of money in fitting up that room. And she 
 thought with a sinking heart of the gloom of the 
 mansion, and its threadbare aspects. 
 
 "Victor Baron," she cried angrily, "I wish you 
 would tell me just what agreement you made with 
 that theatre man. I want to know where I stand." 
 
 And Baron explained or, rather, he failed to 
 explain very clearly. The idea of "a sort of duel" 
 not only failed to delight his auditors as it had de- 
 lighted Thornburg, but they looked as if they con- 
 sidered it a type of criminal and unseemly folly. 
 
 "You see," persisted Baron, "the Thornburgs 
 are rich people. They may go so far as to adopt 
 Bonnie May, if the thing works out satisfactorily. 
 I know how that sounds, but we've got to think 
 of of her interests, as well as our own whims." 
 
 "Whims!" This, witheringly, from Mrs. Baron. 
 
 "I think it was mostly whims at first, anyway." 
 
 "You're speaking for yourself not for me." 
 
 "And the Thornburgs are not bad people. I 
 don't see why they shouldn't make her quite happy. 
 I'm not at all sure we could do as much, if we under- 
 took to keep her here constantly." 
 
 214
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 "That," said Mrs. Baron "is your mean way of 
 reminding me of what happened just a little while 
 ago!" 
 
 "Oh, no, mother! But she's such a joyous little 
 thing ! I think she'll like us all the better for see- 
 ing other people once in a while." 
 
 Mrs. Baron gazed at her son silently, her face 
 darkening. He realized that her mind was filled 
 with scorn, with resistance, with misgivings. "And 
 I suppose," she said, "that everything in their 
 house is the newest and brightest and costliest!" 
 She enumerated these qualities as if she were point- 
 ing out so many of the cardinal sins. 
 
 Baron pretended not to understand. "They 
 live nicely," he said. "But as far as Bonnie May is 
 concerned, I don't think you need fear that the 
 things the Thornburgs have will give them any 
 advantage over us." 
 
 "Well, I don't want her to go," declared Mrs. 
 Baron. 
 
 Baron was standing in indecision when, happily, 
 there was an interruption. 
 
 The front door closed rather noisily, as it did 
 when Mrs. Shepard was not in a very good humor, 
 and there was the sound of Baggot's voice in the 
 hall. 
 
 Baron groaned. He had forgotten about Bag- 
 got. He went out into the hall and confronted the 
 playwright apologetically. "I'd really forgotten," 
 he began, but Baggot cut him short. 
 
 215
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "It's all right," remarked that young man. 
 "Come on up to the library. I needn't keep you 
 long. But it's simply necessary He was lead- 
 ing the way up-stairs as if he were in his own house. 
 
 "Look here, Baggot," remonstrated Baron, "I've 
 got to go out to-night, in half an hour in fifteen 
 minutes. You'll have to come back some other 
 night." 
 
 "Where you going?" 
 
 Baron gasped at the man's rudeness. 
 
 "I've got to review a play, out at " 
 
 "Fine! I'll go with you !" 
 
 Baron sank into a chair. There really wasn't 
 any reason why Baggot shouldn't go with him. 
 "But I'm going on the street-car," he explained. 
 "We couldn't read a play " 
 
 "It's not ready to be read, most of it. I've only 
 got a couple of acts and the scenario. But there 
 are certain things. ..." He pulled his chair 
 closer to Baron's and began an eager discussion 
 of his play. 
 
 Tune passed, and Flora appeared in the door- 
 way. Her eyes were inscrutable. "Mother wishes 
 to see you before you go out," she said. 
 
 "Will she come up here?" pleaded Baron. He 
 wanted to hide behind Baggot and escape a further 
 scolding. 
 
 "I'll ask her," replied Flora. 
 
 Baggot, leaning forward and speaking with great in- 
 tensity, continued on the subject which obsessed him. 
 
 216
 
 Mrs. Baron Takes Up the Gauntlet 
 
 Time flew, and Baron found himself nervously 
 jerking out his watch. Then there was a faint rustle 
 of dresses out in the sitting-room. 
 
 Mrs. Baron appeared in the doorway. 
 
 She was dressed with all the exquisite, subtle 
 attention to detail which never failed to make 
 Baron proud of her. He took in the quiet, old- 
 fashioned jewelry, sparingly displayed; the softened 
 dignity of costume; the fine severity of her beauti- 
 ful hair. Surely she was every inch a gentlewoman 
 of whom any son might be proud. 
 
 She held Bonnie May, smiling serenely, by the 
 hand. 
 
 "I just wanted you to know," she said, standing 
 impressively erect and speaking with quiet resolu- 
 tion, "that we are ready to go to the play." 
 
 217
 
 BONNIE MAY LOOKS BACK 
 
 BAGGOT'S play, it seemed, was really a charming 
 thing a modernized fairy-story. 
 
 To the monotonous rumble of revolving car- 
 wheels the plot was outlined, the characters 
 sketched. Baron felt the dramatic force of it, 
 the surprises. But as the enthusiastic playwright 
 proceeded with his self-appointed task, Baron be- 
 gan to realize, also, that he and his companions 
 and their affairs constituted a very queer sort of 
 drama. 
 
 By his side sat Baggot, and in front of them 
 were his mother and Bonnie May. Mrs. Baron, 
 for special reasons of her own, was making a studied 
 and persistent effort to be entertaining. She talked 
 to the child almost continuously. But Baron could 
 not help seeing that Bonnie May was determinedly 
 playing a double r61e. She was politely pretending 
 to listen to every word Mrs. Baron said, but she 
 was also keeping one ear eagerly turned toward 
 Baggot. 
 
 Baggot, for his part, saw only that Baron seemed 
 to be giving a good deal of his attention to the 
 little girl in the seat ahead. He couldn't make 
 
 218
 
 Bonnie May Looks Back 
 
 any excuse for such division of interest. He began 
 leaning forward at frequent intervals to catch 
 Baron's eye to see if the points he was making 
 were going home. 
 
 Only Mrs. Baron remained in a single-minded 
 mood. She continued to talk amiably, and no 
 doubt a bit wearyingly. She was determined that 
 Bonnie May should have no ground for complaint 
 that she was not being properly entertained. 
 
 "You see," Baggot was saying, "the central 
 figure is an elf, or a sprite, who is supposed to be 
 an embodiment of the good traits in human nature. 
 And then there are witches, and gnomes, and 
 dwarfs, and some big fellows vikings and Titans 
 and giants and some figures put in for the sake 
 of well, variety: druids, and people like that. 
 And Psyche to make a swell picture. Looking 
 at her reflection, you know. All but the central 
 figure, the sprite, are supposed to embody faulty 
 traits, like cruelty, or vanity, or superstition, or 
 jealousy, or envy, or fear. And then certain other 
 qualities for comedy effects, like laziness, or stub- 
 bornness, or stupidity. See? And the sprite gov- 
 erns them all, little by little, until in the end they 
 turn into fairies, or nice human beings. A great 
 transformation scene. ..." 
 
 Baggot stopped suddenly and frowned. "It 
 sounds childish, telling it. As if it were some silly 
 sort of extravaganza. But there's the dialogue. 
 Smart and unexpected, you know. Modern draw- 
 
 219
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 ing-room stuff put up against the heart of the 
 forest and the figures of the story-books. Bring- 
 ing the sublime and the ridiculous together, you 
 know and the material and the ideal, and the 
 every-day and the remote. Silly fallacies of our 
 own day, set against the truth in words such as 
 ^Esop would have used." He stopped suddenly 
 and threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. 
 "Oh, what's the use?" he demanded. "I can't 
 get at it at all, just talking about it. You'll have 
 to see it in writing." 
 
 "I'm sure I understand," Baron reassured him. 
 "You don't put it so vaguely at all. And you 
 know I saw the first act." 
 
 "Yes. ... But I've done that over ever so 
 much better." He clasped his knee in his hands 
 and fidgeted for a moment. And then he broke 
 out with "And the settings ! The four seasons, 
 in the forest, for the four acts. Big things to hit 
 the eye but nicely, you know, so that the drama 
 doesn't suffer so that it's not choked, you might 
 say." 
 
 "Yes," said Baron, "I understand." 
 
 Baggot began to go more into detail touching 
 the plot. He put this part of it very incisively. 
 Occasionally he laughed, or his eyes blazed with 
 satisfaction. He had reached the end before it 
 was time for them to leave the car. 
 
 Bonnie May had seemed to be listening atten- 
 tively to Mrs. Baron; but once Baron heard her 
 
 220
 
 Bonnie May Looks Back 
 
 say, with slight confusion: "I beg your pardon," 
 because she had not responded to a question that 
 had been put to her. 
 
 Now, as they were getting ready to leave the 
 car, she nodded her head decisively. 
 
 "Why are you nodding?" asked Mrs. Baron. 
 She was frankly irritated. 
 
 And the child prevaricated. "Oh, I think it's 
 because I'm well, satisfied." 
 
 The entrance to Fairyland might have been 
 described as a study in chaos. Hundreds of people 
 were pouring into the gates, and they were all 
 coming immediately under the spell of the bedlam 
 of noises and the blaze of lights. 
 
 Baron had one moment of grave doubt as he 
 marshalled his party before getting into the vortex 
 of human forms. He thought his mother could 
 not have looked less satisfied with things in general 
 if she had been the Peri of the legend, just turned 
 back from paradise because she hadn't brought 
 the thing that was expected of her. 
 
 But Mrs. Baron was playing a game. Rather, 
 she was fighting a battle, and she remarked calmly, 
 in response to Baron's anxious look. "It won't 
 be so bad after we get inside." 
 
 "No doubt you're right," replied Baron,' and 
 then they all pressed forward. 
 
 They got by the gatemen just as a car of the 
 scenic-railway variety was cut loose from its moor- 
 ings on a high platform to which it had been 
 
 221
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 dragged, and began its incredibly swift descent 
 along a far-off vista of trees and lights. Women 
 shrieked as if they were being enveloped in flames, 
 and tried to hold their hats in place. 
 
 "Mercy!" was Mrs. Baron's comment; where- 
 upon Baron dropped back a step, and hid his mouth 
 with his hand. 
 
 The inrush of persons behind kept them going 
 somewhat smartly past the first group of "attrac- 
 tions": an "old mill-wheel," with an entirely 
 uniform supply of water tumbling down upon its 
 buckets; a shooting-gallery; a negro with terrified, 
 grinning face protruding from a hole in a curtain 
 as a target for a group of men who were throwing 
 baseballs. 
 
 A merry-go-round started just as Baron's party 
 passed, and a popular melody was ground out with 
 quite superfluous vehemence. Mrs. Baron paused 
 startled into making a halt, seemingly just 
 long enough to catch a glimpse of an elderly couple, 
 a man and a woman, mounted upon two highly 
 colored lions. They were undoubtedly country peo- 
 ple, and the woman's expression indicated that she 
 was determined not to betray unfamiliarity with 
 the high life of the city. 
 
 Mrs. Baron hadn't even an ejaculation which 
 seemed at all adequate to her needs in this case. 
 
 "I think the theatre's over this way," said Baron, 
 steering a course which promised escape from the 
 main currents of the crowd. 
 
 222
 
 Bonnie May Looks Back 
 
 Yes, there was the theatre, standing on a knoll 
 with trees growing on its sides. A curved, flower- 
 bordered road led up to its entrance. 
 
 Conditions rapidly improved. There weren't 
 nearly so many people, and what there were were 
 of a quieter type. 
 
 Half-way up the knoll Baron turned about for 
 a bird's-eye view of the whole place. But be- 
 neath them a Midway blazed, and he caught sight 
 of a lady on a platform before a tent, who was 
 coiling a very large snake about her neck, while 
 a little farther away a princess she seemed to be 
 in red satin and spangles, sat wearily on a palanquin 
 on top of a camel. 
 
 He thought it would be as well for his mother 
 not to see these choicest fascinations of Fairyland. 
 He directed attention to the theatre ahead, which 
 was modelled after what is left of a famous Roman 
 ruin. And so they completed their climb without 
 looking back. 
 
 A grove surrounded the theatre, and under the 
 trees there were chairs and tables. 
 
 "Chairs!" exclaimed Mrs. Baron. "They're 
 the first thing I've seen. . . ." She turned one 
 about and sat down. 
 
 " Fine idea, that," said Baron. "Let's all sit down." 
 
 "It's plenty of time to go hi when you hear the 
 overture begin," observed Bonnie May; whereat 
 Mrs. Baron regarded her with rather a blank ex- 
 pression; but she said nothing. 
 
 223
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 From the portals of the theatre strolled Thorn- 
 burg, and instantly his glance took in Baron and 
 his party. 
 
 It was Baggot who observed that the manager 
 seemed about to join them. 
 
 The manager did. He came toward them across 
 the grass and shook hands with Baron. He was 
 smiling almost benignantly. 
 
 Baron introduced his party. Thornburg was 
 rather casually cordial in his manner. Then he 
 took in the fact that the child in the party was 
 Bonnie May. 
 
 "So this is the little girl?" he inquired. He 
 drew her to his side and flushed with pleasure. 
 His entire appearance changed. "I had an idea 
 she might be over to the house to-night," he added, 
 turning to Baron. 
 
 "No," said Baron, "she preferred to come with 
 
 us." 
 
 Bonnie May shrank slightly from the stranger's 
 touch; but after she had regarded him critically 
 she yielded to it. He seemed rather a good sort, 
 she thought. He wasn't loud, and he didn't take 
 things for granted too much. 
 
 But Mrs. Baron stiffened and seemed bent upon 
 bringing upon the entire group that discomfort 
 and embarrassment the creation of which is one 
 of the finer social accomplishments. " Sit down, ; 
 Bonnie May," she said. She patted an unoccupied ; 
 chair with her hand and smiled. There was some- 1 
 
 224
 
 Bonnie May Looks Back 
 
 thing in her manner which caused Bonnie May 
 to regard her with surprise. 
 
 Thornburg, too, observed her rather deliberately. 
 For an instant he seemed to forget himself, to be 
 absent-minded. Thornburg was of that type of 
 man who seems to surrender unconditionally when 
 a woman employs strategies, but who resolves to 
 do what he pleases when her back is turned. 
 
 Baron resented his mother's attitude, her de- 
 cision not to be communicative and gracious. He 
 stood by the manager's side and spoke of the splen- 
 did picture the garden presented. For a moment 
 they stood in silence, looking down upon the tangle 
 of many-colored lights which marked the course 
 of the Midway. 
 
 The steady stream of people who had been en- 
 tering the theatre had begun to diminish, and now 
 the notes of the overture arose the "Poet and 
 Peasant." 
 
 Bonnie May sprang to her feet. "There it is," 
 she said, and both Baron and Thornburg smiled 
 down on her. Then Thornburg escorted the party 
 into the theatre. 
 
 Baron noted the immense audience, sitting in 
 a blaze of light; a fairly quiet and pleasant-appear- 
 ing audience. He noted, too, that where one might 
 have expected to find walls at right and left there 
 were vast open spaces, through which stars, be- 
 yond waving horizontal branches, were visible. 
 Rolled canvas, which might be let down in case of 
 
 225
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 rain, rattled slightly in the breeze, and one or two 
 disturbed sparrows darted into the place and rested, 
 chirping, on a girder overhead. 
 
 Then Baron had eyes only for Bonnie May, who 
 had undergone some strange sort of transformation 
 the moment she had entered the theatre. 
 
 Her eyes were enough to thrill an ordinary world- 
 weary person. Her color became brilliant. Then 
 her body began to respond to some overmastering 
 influence. One might have thought of her as a 
 little palfrey about to enter a great parade with 
 many bands in it. She was not merely proud and 
 happy; she was quite entranced with delight. 
 
 When the usher, with the manner of his kind, 
 darted down the aisle until he was some eight 
 or ten steps in advance of the party, the child 
 hurried forward a little, and then turned about, her 
 face alight with eagerness; and suddenly she stood 
 still until Mrs. Baron came up to her, and seized 
 that amazed lady's hand and laid her cheek against 
 it and patted it rapidly. 
 
 "It's all right, child," whispered Mrs. Baron 
 warningly, in dread of a scene; but her voice was 
 like a caress, and her eyes were beaming with joy. 
 She was thinking how little she had had to sacrifice, 
 and how very well worth while the sacrifice had 
 been. Truly, it would have been cruel to deprive 
 the child of a pleasure which meant so much to 
 her. 
 
 The man who stood with his big bass fiddle in 
 226
 
 Bonnie May Looks Back 
 
 the orchestra pit was making a dreadful noise on 
 one string sawing it rapidly when the usher 
 flung down a row of seats. Mrs. Baron went in 
 first, followed by Bonnie May. Baron took the 
 next seat, leaving the aisle seat to Baggot. 
 
 The overture ended, and the orchestra leader 
 laid down his baton, while he and his musicians 
 began to adjust themselves in easy positions in 
 their chairs. 
 
 Somewhere a man at a switchboard performed his 
 duty, and one light after another went out until the 
 theatre was in darkness. 
 
 Then the curtain lifted. 
 
 But to Baron it all meant less the story of Paula 
 Tanqueray, up there on the stage, than it did the 
 story of Bonnie May, close by his side. Tanqueray's 
 friends discussed his approaching marriage and his 
 bride to be; the argument of the drama received 
 its simple statement, and presently the ill-starred 
 woman appeared. But through it all Baron knew 
 that his thoughts were chiefly with the child by 
 his side. 
 
 She was so completely lost in the rapture of every 
 passing moment that he felt a strange uneasiness. 
 Here was something more than a normal enjoy- 
 ment. She had the extraordinary gift of being able 
 to appraise the value of the make-believe to gauge 
 the truth of every look and word and movement, 
 and at the same time to lose herself in the story. 
 She clasped and unclasped her hands in silent, 
 
 227
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 painful intensity; there were little, strange move- 
 ments of her head as a result of her acute sym- 
 pathy with the work of the playwright and players 
 alike. And sometimes she hung upon a word that 
 halted, and smiled with rapture when a difficulty 
 was surmounted. 
 
 Baron thought, grotesquely enough, of a little 
 fish fallen from a hook into the grass for a breath- 
 less moment, and then getting back into its proper 
 element and rushing away with a mighty flicking 
 of tail and fins. 
 
 Bonnie May had been of the theatre once, and 
 Baron realized, as he watched her, that somehow, 
 sometime, she would return to it again. 
 
 When, at the end, the report of a pistol was 
 heard, and the stepdaughter of Mrs. Tanqueray came 
 screaming upon the stage, Mrs. Baron set her lips 
 in a hard line. 
 
 "Nobody to blame but herself!" was her com- 
 ment. She, too, had been deeply impressed by the 
 play. 
 
 But the larger faith of the little girl asserted it- 
 self. "Oh, don't say that!" she begged. "She'd 
 have been all right, if they'd really loved her in 
 spite of all!" 
 
 It was the reality of it that held her, Baron per- 
 ceived or her ability to see it as something real. 
 
 The puppets, the make-believe these were off 
 the stage, for Bonnie May. The truth and beauty 
 and reality were on it. 
 
 228
 
 Bonnie May Looks Back 
 
 He smiled thoughtfully as they all filed up the 
 aisle, amid a babble of voices. The child might be 
 wrong; but was it strange that so glorious an ignis 
 fatuus should have power to lead her on to the 
 end? 
 
 As they left the theatre they passed Thornburg, 
 standing near the entrance alone. For an instant 
 there was a peculiar, inscrutable expression in his 
 eyes; then he pulled himself together and smiled 
 and lifted his hat. But after this perfunctory 
 greeting was over, the manager steadily regarded 
 Mrs. Baron, who did not look at him. 
 
 That quiet, masked glance made Baron uncom- 
 fortable, and instinctively he stooped and took 
 Bonnie May firmly by the hand. 
 
 In another moment they were lost in the throng. 
 
 229
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 CONCERNING LAUGHTER 
 
 THE next afternoon Baron received a very cordial 
 letter from Thornburg. The manager was de- 
 lighted with the fine account of the Fairyland open- 
 ing that had been printed in the Times. That was 
 the sum and substance of his letter. There was 
 nothing about the compact to which Baron was a 
 party. 
 
 "Just the same, he's got something up his sleeve," 
 Baron mused. And his next thought was: "But 
 I've kept my word. If she doesn't want to go 
 there's no reason why I should urge her to. She's 
 getting along all right where she is." 
 
 Two weeks slipped by, and then one day at noon 
 as Baron was emerging from the lobby of the Times 
 building he heard a familiar voice in the street. 
 The Thornburg automobile stopped and the man- 
 ager pushed the door open. 
 
 "Been to lunch yet?" called Thornburg. 
 
 "Just going," was the response. Baron would 
 have prevaricated if he'd had time to think; but 
 now it was too late and he made the best of the 
 matter as Thornburg pulled him into the car. 
 
 230
 
 Concerning Laughter 
 
 "Come with me," said the manager, and then he 
 became silent as he threaded the machine through 
 the down-town congestion. 
 
 He did not speak again until they were in a com- 
 paratively quiet restaurant whose patronage was 
 drawn chiefly from theatrical people who did not 
 come in until late in the evening. 
 
 Both men observed that they were to have the 
 place practically to themselves, and then Baron 
 was promptly given to understand what it was that 
 Thornburg wanted. 
 
 "That's really a fine little girl," said the manager, 
 frankly regarding Baron across the table. 
 
 "You mean Bonnie May. Yes, she certainly is. 
 The fact is, you can't begin to realize how uncom- 
 monly fine she is until you know her better." 
 
 "Well, that's just the point. When am I going 
 to know her better? When is she coming to us?" 
 
 Baron gave his whole attention to the waiter for 
 a minute. He was trying to think of a response 
 that wouldn't concede too much. He held the strong 
 cards now. It would be foolish to relinquish them. 
 
 The waiter was gone now. 
 
 "The fact is, Thornburg," said Baron, "she 
 doesn't seem at all eager to accept your invitation. 
 I've told her about it, and explained what a fine 
 place you've got, and all that and she just changes 
 the subject. You know I didn't agree to force her 
 to act. That's just what we both agreed not to 
 do." 
 
 231
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Childish timidity the first time," said Thorn- 
 burg. "If you'd bring her over once she'd get over 
 feeling that way." 
 
 "She's just about as timid as a sunbeam. She'd 
 go anywhere if she thought she'd enjoy it. The 
 fact is, she's absolutely satisfied where she is, at 
 present. Let the matter rest awhile. When things 
 become monotonous I'll call her attention again 
 to your invitation." 
 
 Thornburg shook out his napkin violently. " That 
 sounds like beating about the bush," he said. "You 
 know how to get a child started. ' Oh, look ! ' you 
 say to them. Get them excited. Then they'll do 
 anything." 
 
 "I don't want to get her excited," replied Baron 
 dryly. 
 
 "Yes, that's just it!" retorted the other. "A 
 little excitement would be good for her. I see the 
 advantage of having her at your place part of the 
 time, but I see the advantage of having her with 
 us, too. It would be a shame if she ever got to 
 thinking highly of some of this polite flubdub- 
 He checked himself in embarrassment and brushed 
 imaginary crumbs from his waistcoat. 
 
 "Won't you enlighten me as to what you mean 
 by 'polite flubdub'?" 
 
 Thornburg became almost defiant. "Being chilly, 
 for one thing. And not seeing people. That kind 
 of business. It used to be all right, but it's out of 
 date now. Class distinctions and that sort of 
 
 232
 
 Concerning Laughter 
 
 thing that's all done away with. You might as 
 well hang a knitted tidy up in an art display. 
 Nothing but the goods counts these days." 
 
 "No doubt you're right," responded Baron 
 briefly. He felt it would be impossible for him to 
 admit that he saw any special application in what 
 Thornburg had said. 
 
 A silence followed. Baron permitted a consid- 
 erable degree of arrogance to stifle his friendlier 
 thoughts. Thornburg had spoken offensively; 
 which was rather less excusable than "polite flub- 
 dub." 
 
 Yet, Baron reflected, nothing in Thornburg's 
 manner could alter the fact that it might be greatly 
 to Bonnie May's advantage to accept the hospital- 
 ity of the manager and his wife. 
 
 The impression of the child in the threatre not 
 long ago recurred to him the imperative call upon 
 her which the skill of the players had exerted. 
 
 "You're right, Thornburg," he said finally. 
 "I've been procrastinating that's all. I'll speak 
 to her again. The next time I'll even say 'Oh, 
 look!' or words to that effect. In your own ex- 
 pressive phrase, we'll give her a chance to decide 
 which of us 'has the better attraction to offer.' ' 
 
 This new promise weighed heavily on his con- 
 science that afternoon when he went home; for 
 Bonnie May, unusually radiant, was waiting for 
 him at the door. 
 
 233
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Mr. Baggot was here to-day," she began. "He 
 left his play. And he talked to me about it. He 
 said you might keep it as long as you liked." 
 
 "All very kind of Mr. Baggot." Baron thought- 
 fully disposed of his hat and cane. When he turned 
 to the child again there was a little furrow between 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Bonnie May," he began, "do you remember my 
 telling you some time ago that Mr. and Mrs. Thorn- 
 burg would be glad to have you visit them ? " 
 
 "Yes, I remember." 
 
 "They thought possibly you might have forgot- 
 ten. They asked me to remind you." 
 
 "Thank you. And he's made the prettiest copy 
 of it, with red lines drawn under the words you 
 don't have to learn. Can't we go up-stairs and 
 see it? I put it in your room." 
 
 "Yes, we'll go up-stairs." He was irritated by 
 her supreme indifference to the matter which he 
 had tried to bring to her attention. He meant to 
 have this thing out definitely. 
 
 She rushed away in advance of him so impet- 
 uously that he paused and looked after her in 
 amazement. The furrow disappeared and he was 
 smiling. 
 
 And then the whole strange situation struck him 
 with renewed force. Was she really the daughter 
 of Thornburg, and was he afraid to claim her? Or 
 was there no connection at all between her and the 
 manager, and did he, Baron, hold the trump-cards 
 
 234
 
 Concerning Laughter 
 
 in that game which meant the permanent posses- 
 sion of her? 
 
 If she were Thornburg's, why shouldn't Mrs. 
 Thornburg frankly say to her husband: "I know 
 every thing but I still want her"? It occurred 
 to him that it might be his duty to suggest just 
 that course to her. But old habits of restraint 
 were too strong for him. After all, he didn't know 
 the Thornburgs very well. He scarcely knew Mrs. 
 Thornburg at all. 
 
 Moreover, "it was a very pretty quarrel as it 
 stood." He had been frank and aboveboard every 
 step of the way. If others could not or would not 
 be so, that was no concern of his. 
 
 He went up into the attic, which was made 
 golden by a flood of late afternoon sunlight. In 
 truth he found himself in an atmosphere that was 
 delightful in its warmth and aloofness and quie- 
 tude. 
 
 Bonnie May hurried toward him, the manu- 
 script in her hands. She was trembling with 
 eagerness. A foolish little creature in some re- 
 spects, surely, thought Baron. 
 
 He glanced at the title-page and turned half a 
 dozen pages aimlessly. And when he glanced at 
 Bonnie May he was amazed by her expression of 
 wonder, of distress. 
 
 ^"You don't seem to be interested in it!" said 
 she. 
 
 "Not a great deal just now. I'd have to get 
 
 235
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 into it, you know. When I've more time. Be- 
 sides," he tossed the manuscript aside, "I'm deeply 
 interested in something else just now." 
 
 She quickly evinced a pretty spirit of submis- 
 sion. In response to his gesture she sat down near 
 the window, opposite him. 
 
 "I've been thinking about you to-day. Se- 
 riously." 
 
 "I hope I haven't been queering anything?" 
 
 "Not a bit of it. We're all very much pleased 
 with you." 
 
 There may have been something of patronage 
 in the tone. At any rate, she replied with a little 
 smile: "Thank you. You know an artist always 
 strives to please." As he regarded her quietly she 
 added more earnestly: "It's strange that I got 
 by, too, when you come to think about it. I was 
 hardly prepared to play a nice part when I came 
 here. Anyway, not a part where you have to have 
 so much what the critics call restraint. You can 
 take it from me, the nice parts aren't half as fat 
 as the nasty parts." 
 
 He did not remove his eyes from her face. He 
 had the thought that she was very far away from 
 him, after all. From all of them. "I wish," he 
 said, "you wouldn't always talk as if you were 
 only taking part in a play. Somehow it doesn't 
 seem quite friendly. We're trying to make this a 
 real home for you. We're trying to be real friends. 
 We're trying to live a real life. Why not look at it 
 
 236
 
 Concerning Laughter 
 
 that way when you're with me? Wouldn't that 
 seem friendlier?" 
 
 She looked at him with a little flicker of anxiety 
 in her eyes. "You see," she said, "I can't help 
 thinking all the tune that everything I do must 
 be Like a nice ingenue part, and being afraid that 
 you'll come home some day and find I've been 
 doing some soubrette stuff." 
 
 He shook his head and abruptly assumed a new 
 attitude. "Did you understand me clearly when 
 I said that Mrs. Thornburg wishes you to visit 
 her?" 
 
 "I think I didn't pay much attention," she ad- 
 mitted, looking away from him. "Did you wish 
 me to go?" 
 
 "I think it would be very nice. If you didn't 
 like them, you needn't ever go again." He tried 
 to speak lightly. 
 
 She brought her eyes to his now, anxiously. 
 "When did you think I ought to go?" she asked. 
 
 Baron brought his chair down with a bump. "I 
 didn't say you ought to go, exactly. Don't put it 
 that way. I only thought it would be nice and 
 kind of you to go, because they wish it. I'd be 
 anxious to have you come back quite soon, of 
 course." 
 
 "And and mother: does she wish me to go, 
 too?" 
 
 Her use of that word brought warmth to his 
 heart. "She doesn't wish it. Frankly, I think she 
 
 237
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 wouldn't like it at all. But I think she'd con- 
 sent." 
 
 She was greatly relieved. She leaned forward 
 and patted him on the knee. "I was afraid you 
 might be planning to cut down the company," she 
 said. 
 
 He looked at her without comprehending readily. 
 
 "I mean," she elaborated, "I thought maybe it 
 was a case of cold feet." 
 
 He flinched. "Oh, Bonnie May!" was his dis- 
 approving rejoinder. 
 
 "You mean it's stale?" she asked. The ex- 
 pression in her eyes was innocent, perplexed. 
 
 He slowly shook his head in despair, and then he 
 saw the swift look of comprehension that bright- 
 ened her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, I know," she said. "Knock-about talk!" 
 
 He sprang to his feet and thrust his chair aside. 
 "For a few moments I would be very glad if we 
 might use the English language," he said. "I was 
 hopeful of arriving at an understanding with you 
 on a certain simple proposition." 
 
 She began to laugh unrestrainedly, after an in- 
 stant of shocked silence. She "stared him out of 
 countenance," as the saying is. He had never 
 heard her laugh so hilariously. Yet even then he 
 could not be blind to the look of appeal in her 
 eyes appeal, mingled with a defiant conscious- 
 ness of guilt. 
 
 Then she became grave and conciliatory. "I'll 
 238
 
 Concerning Laughter 
 
 go," she said. "It's nothing, after all. I think I 
 get you. They've been after you, and you don't 
 want to be bothered any more. I think we ought 
 to get it over with as soon as possible." 
 
 "We might go over this evening, immediately 
 after dinner," he suggested. 
 
 She fidgeted. "But you know I'll have to come 
 back to-morrow in time to practise my music les- 
 son?" she stipulated. 
 
 Here was the opportunity to prove his complete 
 fairness to Thornburg. "There's a piano over 
 there. You can practise there, if you care to." 
 
 "No, I'm coming back. I have to take a lesson 
 from Flora, too and give her a lesson." 
 
 Baron didn't know what she was talking about. 
 
 "Flora is giving me lessons in reading," she ex- 
 plained. "You know I'm to go to school next fall." 
 
 "No one had mentioned it to me. But of course 
 you will. Everybody goes to school. And about 
 giving her a lesson?" he added weakly. 
 
 "I'm not sure I ought to talk about that. But 
 why not to you? You see, I'm teaching her how 
 to laugh." 
 
 Baron stared. "Teaching her how to laugh! 11 he 
 echoed. 
 
 She was immediately on^the defensive. "I cer- 
 tainly am. You must have seen that she doesn't 
 know how ! " 
 
 "Nonsense! You're talking just plain non- 
 sense!" 
 
 239
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "You might think so. A good many people 
 would. But I wish you would tell me how many 
 people you know who really laugh right." 
 
 "Right! There's no question of laughing right. 
 People laugh when there's an occasion for laugh- 
 ing." 
 
 "They don't really laugh, because they don't 
 know how. And very few people know anything 
 about the right occasion to laugh." 
 
 "Meaning " 
 
 "I can make it quite plain. You see, it's a cus- 
 tom to teach children how to talk, and some are 
 taught how to sing. I say nothing about the silly 
 things that are taught to 'speak pieces,' Heaven 
 help them. They are taught these things because 
 they wouldn't know how to do them right if they 
 were left to themselves. They try to talk and 
 they try to sing, and they get it all wrong. And 
 then they are taught." 
 
 "That's an entirely different matter." 
 
 "Not at all. When they try to laugh they get 
 it all wrong, too, but nobody thinks it's necessary, 
 to teach them any better. You can see I'm perfectly 
 right." 
 
 "I think what you say is quite absurd." 
 
 "It's just new to you, that's all. You know per- 
 fectly well that when most people try to laugh what 
 they really do is to cackle, or giggle, or shriek, or make 
 horrible noises until they nearly choke. Women 
 try not to cry, because it makes them look ugly. 
 
 240
 
 Concerning Laughter 
 
 But just think how some people look when they 
 laugh. All they need is a few lessons at the right 
 time. Then they know how to laugh naturally 
 and freely. You have to think how you are doing 
 it at first. Afterward you laugh the right way 
 without thinking at all." 
 
 " 'Ladies and gentlemen, I take pleasure in 
 introducing Mile. Bonnie May, laughing expert,' ' 
 said Baron derisively. 
 
 "A very fine argument," responded Bonnie May, 
 nodding graciously. "And about the 'occasion' to 
 laugh," she persisted seriously. "There's a whole 
 lot to be said about that. You frame up a speech 
 with a lot of care to get out of a scrape, or to make 
 people do something they don't want to do or for 
 something like that. You ought to laugh on the 
 same principle. Yet when most people tell you 
 about laughing at anything they put it this way: 
 'I couldn't help laughing!' You know you smile 
 sometimes when you don't mean it, just to help 
 things along; or you say you pity people, or you 
 say something to encourage them, for the same 
 reason. In the same way, you ought to laugh some- 
 times when you're not really amused. If you are 
 downhearted or afraid you can hide it by laugh- 
 ing. And you can make people take a sensible 
 view of things sometimes, just by laughing at them. 
 But of course, you have to know how to do it right. 
 If you bray at them, or giggle, they'll be insulted, 
 naturally." 
 
 241
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Baron shook his head. "Where did you pick it 
 all up?" he asked. 
 
 "I didn't 'pick it up/ exactly. Miss Barry took 
 particular pains to teach it to me. On account of 
 my work mostly. And I thought a lot of it out for 
 myself." 
 
 Before Baron had time to make any response to 
 her she sprang to her feet and picked up the neg- 
 lected manuscript. All her interests were imme- 
 diately centred in it. 
 
 She turned a dozen pages rapidly. Then she 
 paused in indecision and turned back a page or 
 two. She was anxiously searching. 
 
 "Here it is!" she cried. She was much relieved. 
 "Please read that to me." She indicated a sen- 
 tence. 
 
 Baron perceived that it was a longish passage 
 a grandiloquent flight which he read shamefacedly. 
 
 She stopped him on the word "harbinger." 
 "That's the word," she said. "Say that again." 
 
 He complied. 
 
 "What does it mean?" she wanted to know. 
 
 He had scarcely started to explain when she 
 exclaimed, " Oh, I see ! Go on." 
 
 A voice interrupted them: Mrs. Shepard, an- 
 nouncing that dinner was ready. 
 
 On the way down-stairs Bonnie May amazed 
 Baron by repeating in its entirety the passage he 
 had read to her "harbinger," and all. "It's pretty, 
 isn't it?" said she. 
 
 242
 
 Concerning Laughter 
 
 In the lower hall Flora joined them. Baron 
 glanced at her mischievously. "I've been learning 
 a little something about the dark deeds that are 
 going on around me," he said. 
 
 And Flora, as she preceded the other two into 
 the dining-room, lifted her face slightly and laughed 
 in a manner so musical and mellow that Baron 
 looked after her in amazement. 
 
 He felt Bonnie May's hand tugging at his, and 
 looking at her he perceived that she had laid one 
 finger across her lips in warning. 
 
 He understood. He wanted to laugh, too. But 
 he realized that he did not know how, and that, 
 moreover, this was not the proper occasion. 
 
 243
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AN EXIT AND AN ENTRANCE 
 
 IT was rather a pity that Bonnie May yielded to 
 an impulse to go out and have a little talk with 
 Mrs. Shepard after she had finished her dinner. 
 
 It was a pity, because she also yielded to an im- 
 pulse to talk confidentially to the sympathetic old 
 servant, and as a result she received an entirely 
 erroneous impression. 
 
 "I'm going away for a visit," said Bonnie May, 
 by way of opening. 
 
 "A visit!" repeated Mrs. Shepard. "Why, 
 ain't you here just for a visit?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! Of course ! " was the response, given 
 rather blankly. 
 
 "You mean you're going for a visit somewhere 
 else." 
 
 "Yes, that's what I mean." 
 
 There was silence for a time, while Bonnie May 
 tried to realize the full truth of what Mrs. Shepard 
 had said. Yes, she was merely a visitor in the 
 mansion, certainly. And they had probably been 
 regarding her in that light all the time. 
 
 A fear she had entertained earlier in the day re- 
 curred to her. "And I expect they may be getting 
 tired of me," she threw out tentatively. 
 
 244
 
 An Exit and an Entrance 
 
 Mrs. Shepard was what is usually called a sensible 
 woman. "Oh, well," she replied, "you know how 
 that is. When you are a visitor, people always 
 treat you politely, but, of course, they expect you 
 not to wear your welcome out." 
 
 "Of course," assented Bonnie May. She didn't 
 permit Mrs. Shepard to see that she had suddenly 
 grown horribly uncomfortable. 
 
 "You know, when people see too much of each 
 other, they they get tired of each other," added 
 the sensible servant. 
 
 "The most natural thing in the world," agreed 
 Bonnie May. She felt that she suddenly hated 
 Mrs. Shepard with a dreadful hatred. She did 
 not at all realize that Mrs. Shepard was innocently 
 laying down a general proposition which she had 
 no thought of applying to any one in particular. 
 
 Still, she meant to behave graciously. "If I 
 should ever come back again, you won't mind if 
 I come out and bake a little cake once in a while?" 
 she asked. She was achieving her most friendly 
 smile. 
 
 Mrs. Shepard turned toward her with energy. 
 "I certainly won't," she declared. There were no 
 general propositions in her mind now. She was 
 saying to herself: "Was there ever such a cunning 
 little thing?" "And I do hope you'll come back 
 soon ! " she added. 
 
 Bonnie May nodded brightly and entered the 
 dining-room. She paused to adjust an article or 
 
 245
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 two on the table. She tried to assume the manner 
 of one who is quite light-hearted. She was pre- 
 paring herself to play her part properly when she 
 joined the family up-stairs. 
 
 They were all assembled in the sitting-room, and 
 each was silent and self-centred when Baron dropped 
 the evening paper to the floor and addressed Bonnie 
 May when she entered the room, in the manner of 
 one who has forgotten something. 
 
 "You're not ready to go with me to the Thorn- 
 burgs'," he said. "You know we ought to be 
 starting before long." 
 
 The effect of this casual utterance was quite 
 electrifying. The elder Baron dropped his paper, 
 also, and removed his glasses. Flora, searching 
 through a box of letters with some more or less 
 definite end in view, permitted several envelopes 
 with their contents to slip to the floor. She turned 
 a gaze of marked disfavor upon her brother. Mrs. 
 Baron merely swallowed with difficulty and looked 
 decidedly uncomfortable. 
 
 Bonnie May felt the tension in the atmosphere. 
 They were trying to be nice and polite about it, 
 she decided. "I only have to put my hat on," she 
 said. She succeeded wholly in creating the im- 
 pression that she was delighted with their planning, 
 as usual. 
 
 Mrs. Baron arose with a little tremor in her 
 limbs. Her attitude became that of one who is 
 tenderly maternal and pathetically old. She bent 
 
 246
 
 An Exit and an Entrance 
 
 over and took the child's hands in hers. "My 
 dear," she said, "are you quite sure you are willing 
 to go?" 
 
 Bonnie May looked into her eyes and smiled. 
 She was grateful for this proof of kindness. They 
 were the nicest people, truly! They weren't going 
 to permit her to feel offended. "Oh, yes !" she said 
 brightly. 
 
 Mrs. Baron released her hands and turned away. 
 
 "I think it will be very nice to go," added Bonnie 
 May. "You know, when people see too much of 
 one another, they they get tired of one another!" 
 
 "I dare say!" responded Mrs. Baron. She was 
 determined the ungrateful little thing shouldn't see 
 how wounded she was. "Well, if you're to go to 
 the Thornburgs, I ought to see that you are present- 
 able." 
 
 She and the child disappeared, Mrs. Baron lead- 
 ing the way and Bonnie May looking back over 
 her shoulder with a smile. 
 
 "Extraordinary!" said the elder Baron. 
 
 "She's certainly a puzzle to me," said Baron. 
 "Maybe the Thornburgs can do better with her." 
 
 "Oh, don't judge her just by that one tactless 
 speech!" exclaimed Flora. "Don't forget what a 
 little thing she is." 
 
 Then silence fell in the room, and the typical 
 Baron existence was maintained until the mistress 
 of the house returned, guiding Bonnie May serenely 
 before her Bonnie May in her best dress, and in 
 
 247
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 a saucy straw hat decorated with silk pansies, and 
 with a ridiculous little hand-satchel depending from 
 her hooked forefinger. 
 
 "All right," said Baron, leading the way toward 
 the stairs. He had an idea that words had better 
 be used sparingly. 
 
 But at the door the departing guest turned for 
 a last look, and instead of the masks of affable 
 politeness she expected to behold there was instead 
 a look of unmistakable regret on every face. Regret 
 which amounted to actual grief, so far as Mrs. 
 Baron and Flora were concerned. 
 
 Surely they weren't glad to see her go! There 
 must be a mistake. . . . 
 
 She clasped her hands and leaned forward in an 
 attitude of great earnestness. "You know how I 
 love you!" she cried. Her voice almost failed 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Baron came forward, all her resentment 
 gone. "Indeed, we do," she declared. "There, 
 you're not to go away feeling badly. I'm very 
 sorry you feel that you ought to go. And we'll 
 be very anxious to have you come back as soon 
 as you possibly can." 
 
 "Oh, thank you so much!" She lifted impulsive 
 arms to Mrs. Baron's neck and hugged her. She 
 looked back at the others, and they could see that 
 there was happiness in her eyes as well as tears. 
 
 Then she was gone, in Baron's wake. The sound 
 of her voice, anxiously questioning, drifted up the 
 
 248
 
 An Exit and an Entrance 
 
 stairs until it was suddenly quieted by the closing 
 of the front door. 
 
 "I'm afraid we'll have to go out on a street-car," 
 said Baron. "When you want to come back, the 
 Thornburgs will probably send you in an auto- 
 mobile." 
 
 She clasped her hands. "Fine!" said she. 
 
 Baron frowned a fact which she remarked. "I 
 wasn't thinking about the automobile," she hast- 
 ened to assure him. 
 
 "Why the unconcealed rapture, then?" 
 
 "Oh, I thought you might be starting out to 
 lose me, as you would a cat or a dog, you know. 
 I'm glad there'll be a way for me to get back." 
 
 Baron refused to see any humor in her remark. 
 "I wish you'd quit looking at it like that," he said. 
 "Some day you'll understand better why I think 
 it is a good thing for you to be friendly with the 
 Thornburgs. Just now you may rest assured that 
 we're going to miss you." He realized that he was 
 being rather serious, and he tried to end his ob- 
 servations more cheerfully. "And whenever it 
 pleases you to honor us with your presence again, 
 you'll find the latch-string, et cetera, et cetera." 
 
 There was a very pleasant old garden at the 
 rear of the Thornburg residence a fairly roomy 
 region of old trees and vines and rustic seats and 
 dreams. In the midst of this sylvan scene stood a 
 very old, friendly apple-tree, and beneath this, hi 
 
 249
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 the evening dusk through which Baron and Bonnie 
 May were escorted out into the garden, sat Mrs. 
 Thornburg. 
 
 Thornburg had received them, and it was his 
 idea that it would be a fine thing for the two guests 
 to take Mrs. Thornburg unawares. 
 
 She regarded the visitors rather wearily at first 
 as they emerged from the shadows and stood be- 
 fore her. Then she recognized Baron, and her face 
 brightened wonderfully. There was a child with 
 him, and of course it would be the child. 
 
 She arose from her many-cushioned seat and 
 leaned a little forward, while Bonnie May regarded 
 her with earnest eyes. 
 
 "You see, we're here!" said Baron, trying to 
 strike a light and cheerful note. 
 
 Mrs. Thornburg scarcely seemed to notice him. 
 "Yes," she said dreamily. She did not remove her 
 eyes from Bonnie May's. 
 
 It was the child who completed her scrutiny 
 first. She glanced about her appraisingly. "A 
 very beautiful exterior you have here," she re- 
 marked, somewhat loftily. 
 
 Mrs. Thornburg smiled rapturously at this. A 
 warm hue stole into her cheeks. 
 
 "I'm glad you like it," she said. She glanced 
 at Baron now, with joyous wonder in her eyes. 
 " We think it's pretty," she added. " It might make 
 you think of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy-tales, 
 mightn't it?" It was plain that she was feeling 
 
 250
 
 An Exit and an Entrance 
 
 her way cautiously. "We might imagine we were 
 the children who played under the juniper-tree 
 though I'm not sure an apple-tree would pass for 
 a juniper- tree." 
 
 Bonnie May nodded amiably. "Or it might 
 remind you of a Shakespeare setting," she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 The woman regarded her anew with a look of 
 wonder, and pique, and delight; and then it was 
 evident that she had reached the limits of her re- 
 straint. With hands that trembled she drew the 
 child slowly toward her, until she had the radiant 
 face pressed against her breast. 
 
 "Dear child, do try to love me, won't you?" 
 she pleaded, and Baron saw that her face twitched, 
 and that her eyes were offering a prayer to the soft 
 sky in which the first stars of evening were just 
 blossoming. 
 
 Then, almost stealthily, he left them. 
 
 Baggot was waiting for him in front of the house 
 when he reached home. To be exact, the young 
 playwright was sitting on the front step, nervously 
 puffing a cigarette. 
 
 "What took you out this time in the evening?" 
 he demanded. 
 
 "I've been taking Bonnie May for a visit." 
 "Oh ! her. I wanted to ask you. Who is she?" 
 Baron was unlocking the door. "Her name is 
 Bonnie May," he said. 
 
 251
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Oh, I know that. I mean, who is she? A 
 grandchild, or something?" 
 
 "I haven't any grandchildren. Suppose we go 
 into the house." 
 
 "I don't see why I shouldn't know who she is. 
 It seems a pity to me that you can't say some- 
 thing." Baggot threw his cigarette into the street 
 and followed Baron into the house and up into the 
 attic. Arrived there he renewed his attack. 
 
 "While it seems improbable that you can add 
 anything to the very explicit account you have 
 given me of Bonnie May, I'd like to say that I'm 
 curious to know who she is." 
 
 Baron turned upon him quietly. "In view of 
 your unchallengeable right to ask questions about a 
 guest who happens to be in this house, I will explain 
 that she is an actress by profession, and that being 
 out of an engagement just now, she is accepting our 
 hospitality." 
 
 Baggot was undisturbed. He exclaimed: "Well, 
 I thought !" 
 
 "You thought ?" 
 
 "That I recognized her! Her ways, I mean. 
 You could tell there was something about her. . . ." 
 
 "Well," concluded Baron, "now let's see what's 
 up." He had turned on the light, and now he 
 shoved a chair in Baggot's direction. 
 
 "What do you think of the play?" demanded 
 Baggot. 
 
 "I haven't read it yet." 
 252
 
 ''Dear child, do try to love me, won't you?"
 
 An Exit and an Entrance 
 
 Baggot laughed lamely and his whole bearing 
 expressed contempt. "You don't seem to be at 
 all excited about it ! " he complained. 
 
 Baron made no response to that. He was won- 
 dering where Baggot got his enthusiasm for things. 
 
 "Well, the point is," continued the other, "I've 
 got a producer, and it's to be put on right away. 
 Over at the Palace. They've got a summer stock 
 company, you know. They're going to give it a 
 trial performance." 
 
 Baron was surprised. "I congratulate you," he 
 said. "I supposed such things were pretty hard to 
 manage." 
 
 Baggot explained with complete frankness. "I 
 know that. You see, I've got an uncle who is 
 financially interested in the Palace. He's got con- 
 fidence in me in this play, anyway. He made 
 them give me a trial. And that's all I ask for. It'll 
 go like wild-fire. You'll see." 
 
 He had lighted another cigarette and was puffing 
 nervously. "Where is it?" he demanded. And 
 when the manuscript was placed in his hands he 
 drew nearer to the light. With smoke curling up 
 into his eyes he began to read aloud. He held his 
 head askew, to escape the smoke. 
 
 Baron leaned back, his face in shadow, and 
 curiously studied the intense manner of his com- 
 panion. 
 
 Baggot read: fitfully, speedily, with an occasional 
 aside, which he dropped entirely when he got well 
 
 253
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 into the action of the drama. There was some- 
 thing of impersonation in his manner as he read 
 now one character's lines and now another's. He 
 put so much interest into the reading that it seemed 
 almost like acting. And presently Baron began to 
 see vivid pictures. He was carried into a strange, 
 pleasant atmosphere. He was delighted by quaint, 
 unexpected bits of dialogue. He perceived, little 
 by little, the trend of the whimsical philosophy. 
 
 He could scarcely believe that this was Baggot's 
 work. He forgot to take account of tune. And 
 when the last act was finished, he found that he 
 had risen to his feet. 
 
 " Splendid ! " he exclaimed. " Splendid ! " 
 
 Baggot thrust the manuscript from him and 
 turned to the other with brilliant, triumphant eyes. 
 
 "No fault to 1 find with that," he challenged. In 
 another moment he had left the room, and was 
 hurrying down the stairs and away from the house, 
 too excited to contain himself. 
 
 The manuscript remained where it had fallen. 
 
 Late the next afternoon Baron returned from a 
 day's work in the Times office. 
 
 He was thinking of Baggot's play. He meant 
 to read it for himself to see how much he had been 
 influenced the day before by Baggot's almost 
 hypnotic enthusiasm. 
 
 He went up into the attic room and there, 
 much to his amazement and delight, he was con- 
 fronted by Bonnie May. 
 
 254
 
 An Exit and an Entrance 
 
 She blushed with confusion and looked at him 
 almost guiltily. 
 
 "Back so soon!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Why, it seemed to me I was away quite a long 
 time." 
 
 "Well, yes I suppose I've been rather busy." 
 He looked about for the manuscript, which seemed 
 to have been removed. "Did you find it pleasant 
 at the Thornburgs'?" he asked. He was succeed- 
 ing now in getting back his habitual, quiet manner. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Quite pleasant." 
 
 "That's nice. I somehow imagined they might 
 persuade you to stay a little longer." 
 
 "No, when I said I ought to be coming home, 
 she sent to the garage and had the automobile 
 brought around for me." 
 
 Baron nodded. "And she wasn't disappointed, 
 then?" 
 
 "She was very nice about it. She asked me to 
 come again. She told the man that any time I 
 telephoned to him he might come with the machine 
 and get me here, you know. Any afternoon. It 
 seems Mr. Thornburg never uses the machine in 
 the afternoons, and she doesn't care for it herself. 
 She was just as nice as she could be. And of course 
 I'm going back. But you know I really belong here." 
 
 "Yes, certainly," assented Baron. "Yes, I 
 understand that." He was still a bit puzzled. 
 He added tentatively: "Wasn't everything very 
 beautiful there?" 
 
 255
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Beautiful? In what way?" 
 "The house the grounds everything." 
 "Oh the settings! Yes, they were quite pre- 
 tentious. But they never count for so much, really. 
 It is the action and the dialogue that really count. 
 And I like the action and the dialogue here much 
 better." 
 
 256
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 BAGGOT'S PLAY 
 
 WHEN you are told that you have only to telephone 
 to a certain garage, and a very fine, large auto- 
 mobile will be sent around to your house, entirely 
 at your service, a very strong temptation has been 
 placed in your way. 
 
 Bonnie May could scarcely believe that she could 
 achieve so much by a mere word or two over the 
 telephone, and it was not at all surprising that she 
 experimented within a day or two after her first 
 visit to the Thornburg home. 
 
 The automobile came with almost incredible 
 promptness, and a chauffeur who had the gallant 
 bearing of a soldier did everything but fling a cloak 
 on the ground for Bonnie May to walk on. 
 
 She called rather briefly and formally on Mrs. 
 Thornburg on this occasion, but the experience 
 had its special, delighting excitements. The ex- 
 periment was repeated frequently, and the truth 
 must be recorded that before long Bonnie May 
 was spending her tune more or less equally between 
 the mansion and the Thornburg home. 
 
 She became something of a personage during 
 those days. 
 
 Baggot called on Baron one afternoon, and upon
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 being informed that Baron was out, he asked for 
 Bonnie May, and spent fully an hour with her, 
 leaving her in a high state of complacency. 
 
 The next day he called again, and this time he 
 did not ask for Baron. He came, he said, to call 
 on Bonnie May. 
 
 But this time she was not in. She spent a good 
 part of her tune as the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Thorn- 
 burg, Baggot was told which indicates clearly 
 enough how the status of affairs had changed. 
 
 Baggot made a note of this information and went 
 away in a thoughtful mood. 
 
 The members of the Baron family considered 
 these developments without commenting upon them 
 very much at first. But one day Baron, Sr., took 
 occasion to express an opinion. 
 
 "It seems strange to have a mere infant passing 
 between two houses like a bird between two trees," 
 he said. This was thought to be his mild way of 
 expressing disapproval. 
 
 "It's Victor's arrangement," replied Mrs. Baron. 
 This response was made less inadequate by the 
 way her eyebrows went up. 
 
 "The fact is," declared Flora, "we've aU fallen 
 in love with the saucy little thing." 
 
 "Well?" inquired Mrs. Baron truculently. 
 
 "I mean, I don't think Victor's idea is a bad one 
 at all. She's well, the kind that do extraordinary 
 things when they grow up. We may be glad enough 
 to be in a position where we can 'get from under' 
 one of these days." 
 
 258
 
 Baggot's Play 
 
 "I'm thinking of our responsibility," was her 
 mother's rejoinder. 
 
 "Yes, so am I. Suppose she made up her mind 
 to be an actress again? The Thornburgs would 
 be just the right kind of friends for her if she did 
 and Victor says they are very good people. But 
 having an actress in the house in our house would 
 be like having a cub bear for a pet. They're cun- 
 ning enough when they're little, but there comes a 
 time when you have to telephone the zoo, or turn 
 in a riot call." 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed!" cried Mrs. Baron. 
 "I'm sure she's a good child a very good child." 
 
 The word "reconstruction" came to Flora's 
 mind, but she didn't say anything about it. She 
 only smiled, rather tantalizingly, and added: "Just 
 the same, I believe in cyclone cellars." 
 
 So it became no uncommon thing for a huge car 
 to stop before the mansion. "For me!" Bonnie 
 May would exclaim on these occasions; whereupon 
 she would hurry into jacket and hat, and eagerly 
 clasp Mrs. Baron and Flora about the neck, and 
 hurry with real childish eagerness as far as the 
 front door, after which she would demurely cross 
 the sidewalk and take her place in the car with the 
 air of any sedate lady of fashion. 
 
 The first little unpleasantness between Bonnie 
 May and Baron arose very soon after this series 
 of irregular exits and entrances began. 
 
 "While I think of it," said Baron casually, ad- 
 
 259
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 dressing the child, "I want to provide a a fund for 
 you." He smiled amiably. "See?" He took a 
 quantity of change from his pocket and placed it 
 in a vase. "Whenever you go calling it will be 
 proper for you to put something into your purse. 
 For tips, perhaps. Or for something of that kind. 
 I am sure a young lady ought to have a little 
 money." 
 
 Bonnie May looked curiously into his smiling 
 face, which seemed to have been transformed for 
 the moment into a mask. "I don't believe I would 
 bother about that," she replied. 
 
 "I'm not bothering." Baron's smile stiffened 
 slightly. "I merely wish you to have what you 
 want." 
 
 "But Mrs. Thornburg always gives me money." 
 
 The smile vanished. "That's very good of Mrs. 
 Thornburg, certainly. But when you are in our 
 house you won't need her money. When you're 
 starting out, from this end of the route, you'll find 
 money in the vase." 
 
 She looked at him intently, not quite under- 
 standing the unfriendly note in his voice. "I be- 
 lieve you are jealous !" she said. 
 
 "You see too much," rejoined Baron resent- 
 fully. 
 
 "It isn't that. You show too much!" 
 
 "Of course, I ought to be grateful for criticism 
 from such a source ! " 
 
 She regarded him with wonder, her eyes filling 
 260
 
 Baggot's Play 
 
 with tears.^ "You've no right to speak to me like 
 that. You know I don't need any money. You 
 have all been so generous. . . . And it's only be- 
 cause Mrs. Thornburg isn't well, and because I 
 don't know her as well as I know you that I took 
 money from her. She was so happy giving it to 
 me. It would have been rude for me to refuse. 
 But here here I've been with friends ! " 
 
 She brushed the tears from her eyes and ran from 
 the room. As in other times of stress, Mrs. Shepard 
 and the kitchen became her refuge. 
 
 Baron looked after her with an assumption of 
 idle curiosity, but when he heard a distant door 
 close his expression changed to real concern. He 
 was dismayed when he thought how deeply he had 
 wounded the child. He was aware of a sudden 
 resentment against the Thornburgs. He sat down 
 and gazed abstractedly at the carpet. He realized 
 after a time that he was studying the meaningless 
 outlines of a figure in faded colors. "We need a 
 new carpet," he mused. "We need everything 
 new. And the only new thing we've got hold of 
 in years is discovering that everything in the house, 
 including ourselves, is threadbare, and respectable 
 and ugly." 
 
 Then he realized that Bonnie May had come 
 back into the room and that she was almost im- 
 patiently trying to thrust her hand into his. 
 
 "Oh, do let's play nice parts," she remonstrated. 
 "You know, if you once start in melodrama it's 
 
 261
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 the hardest thing in the world to get into anything 
 better." 
 
 He leaned back and clasped his hands behind 
 his head. "I think I make rather a silly villain," 
 he admitted. 
 
 "You see, I know what troubled you. I thought 
 it out. You thought I could care more for the 
 things the Thornburgs do for me than I do for 
 the lovely way you took me in here and were good 
 to me. Wasn't that it?" 
 
 "Why, something like that." 
 
 "Well, that's silly. Politeness that's all it's 
 been with them. But the way you took me in, and 
 treated me, and every thing. . . . You don't think 
 I could be such a little beast as not to understand 
 all that, do you?" 
 
 There was no other friction for many days. In- 
 deed, Bonnie May was less frequently absent when 
 Baron came into the house from his journeys about 
 the city. She seemed after all to be developing only 
 a limited interest in the Thornburgs. 
 
 Besides, Baron had a new interest thrust upon 
 him. Baggot had arrived at a point in the de- 
 velopment of his play which made him an incessant 
 nuisance to all his acquaintances, and to Baron 
 most of all. He could talk of nothing but his drama 
 "The Break of Day," it was called and he in- 
 sisted upon consulting Baron, or inviting his ad- 
 miration and approval, half a dozen times a day. 
 
 262
 
 Baggot's Play 
 
 Rehearsals had begun over at the Palace, and 
 the process of cutting, and elaborating, and alter- 
 ing, was almost driving Baggot mad. Mad with 
 resentment, sometimes; or mad with excitement 
 and anticipations. 
 
 "You'll review it for one of the papers, won't 
 you?" he demanded of Baron on one occasion, 
 indicating by manner and tone that a refusal was 
 out of the question. 
 
 "How can I tell?" retorted Baron. ; "I'll have 
 to wait until I'm asked." 
 
 "I'll attend to that." He was blind to Baron's 
 contemptuous and sceptical grin. "And I'll want 
 to extend courtesies to your family, if you don't 
 mind. A box. You know it helps a lot to have the 
 right kind of people at a premiere" He perceived 
 something in Baron's eyes which disquieted him. 
 "I mean," he added, "I want to get the opinion of 
 the right kind of people." 
 
 "Thank you," said Baron. "Of course I can't 
 answer for the family. They might like to come. 
 They will appreciate the invitation, in any event." 
 He was wondering why he had ever permitted Bag- 
 got to get acquainted with him. Then, afraid that 
 Baggot would read this thought in his eyes, he 
 added evasively: "Bonnie May appears to be the 
 real theatregoer of the family. She will want to 
 come, I'm sure." 
 
 "Oh, Bonnie May!" Baggot seemed to be 
 brushing the name aside. "It's \hzjamily I want. 
 
 263
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 I have a reason. Be sure not to fail me." He 
 seemed to remember something in connection with 
 the work over at the Palace. In a moment he was 
 gone, without a word of farewell. 
 
 He was utterly childish, Baron thought, and 
 certainly it was wrong to disappoint children need- 
 lessly. 
 
 Yes, he would really try to persuade the family 
 to go. 
 
 When occasion arose to speak to Bonnie May 
 alone he tried to make light of the whole affair. 
 "A great honor," he began, "for you and all of 
 us. A box has been reserved for us for the first 
 performance of 'The Break of Day.' ' 
 
 Bonnie May clapped her hands. "How fine!" 
 she said. "Do you think they will all go?" 
 
 "I hardly know. Really, it doesn't seem very 
 important does it? a first performance, in a 
 summer theatre, by an unknown company!" 
 
 She seemed anxious. "Anyway, I do hope 
 mother will go." 
 
 Baron thought he understood that. If "mother" 
 refused to go, she might not be permitted to go 
 herself. 
 
 However, he approached his mother on the sub- 
 ject with a certain amount of earnestness. "I've 
 had a sort of hand in the play, in a small way," 
 he explained. "And Baggot is anxious to have 
 us all come." He couldn't resist the temptation 
 to add: "He places a high value on the opinion of 
 
 264
 
 Baggot's Play 
 
 what he calls nice people. That means us. You 
 can't seem indifferent to such recognition, can 
 you?" 
 
 Mrs. Baron was deaf to the sarcasm. "Isn't 
 it one of those cheap summer theatres?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, but really I don't know that it will be 
 very different from the winter performances. Not 
 as an ethical proposition, anyway." 
 
 "I hardly think I'd be interested," she decided. 
 However, she did not speak with her usual cer- 
 tainty, and she glanced at her son a bit anxiously. 
 If he really wanted her to go. . . . 
 
 On a later occasion Baron again touched the 
 subject. He had just got rid of Baggot, who was 
 in an unusually enthusiastic mood. 
 
 "Really, mother, I have an idea that play is 
 going to be quite worth while. If you didn't mind 
 it very much. . . ." 
 
 But Mrs. Baron fancied she was being coerced. 
 "No, I think not," she said, shaking her head. 
 
 "And Bonnie May," added Baron. "Great 
 goodness, how anxious she is to go ! I suppose she 
 thinks she can't go unless you do." 
 
 Mrs. Baron's eyes flashed. That was it ! Bonnie 
 May's comfort and pleasure that, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 "I remember that argument," she said, rather 
 disagreeably. "You forget that she has other 
 friends now rather better suited to her needs in 
 this case. The Thornburgs can take her." 
 
 265
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 But Baron, noting the uncomfortable look in 
 her eyes, left her with the conclusion, unexpressed: 
 "My bet is that the Thornburgs will not take 
 her." 
 
 266
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 BARON COMES HOME ONJA BEER-DRAY 
 
 BARON was not at all confident that any of the 
 dramatic editors would want him to write a review 
 of "The Break of Day." He merely hoped his 
 services might be required. And he was disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 He might have had the assignment for the ask- 
 ing, perhaps; but he felt a hesitancy about asking. 
 He had "fathered" the play, somewhat. He had 
 a personal interest in it. 
 
 Moreover, there was one reason why he was glad 
 to be disengaged. Now he could attend the per- 
 formance as an ordinary spectator, and he could 
 take Bonnie May with him. 
 
 The day of the first performance arrived. Baron 
 left the mansion early in the forenoon, more for 
 the purpose of escaping the half -insane Baggot 
 than for any other reason. Baggot didn't really 
 believe that Baron could help him, perhaps, but his 
 nature demanded that he talk about his play all 
 the time, and Baron listened well. 
 
 Bonnie May was not about when Baron left the 
 mansion. He had had no final understanding with 
 her as to whether she was to go to the theatre that 
 night or not. And it was for this reason that he was 
 
 267
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 coming home in a particularly eager mood, late in 
 the afternoon, to tell her that he was foot-loose, 
 and that she might depend upon him as an escort 
 to the theatre. 
 
 He was coming home with much eagerness 
 and then an accident happened. 
 
 He started to alight from the cross-town car be- 
 fore it stopped, and his foot struck a loose frag- 
 ment of stone, and he lost his balance. Thinking 
 of the matter afterward, he decided that he could 
 not recall an experience more banal, more needless. 
 But he did not reach this conclusion at the time, 
 for the good reason that his head struck the pave- 
 ment and he lost consciousness. There had been 
 just one instant of sharp agony. 
 
 He opened his eyes presently to find himself 
 supported by two men. Every passenger in the 
 crowded car, which had stopped, was staring at 
 him. A crowd of pedestrians had also stopped to 
 see what had happened. 
 
 He looked dazedly at the two men who were sup- 
 porting him. One was the car-conductor, whose 
 eyes expressed fear and disgust. The other man's 
 appearance was in some degree familiar to Baron. 
 He was gigantic, ruddy, wholly self-possessed. 
 
 Baron wondered who this man was, and then, 
 as his gaze roved weakly from point to point, he 
 saw a red beer-dray and he knew. This was the 
 beer-driver whom he and Bonnie May had watched 
 and discussed one day from the attic window. 
 
 268
 
 Baron Comes Home on a Beer-Dray 
 
 "He's all right," declared the beer-driver, get- 
 ting a firmer grip on Baron's arm. 
 
 Baron was greatly relieved to hear that he was 
 "all right." He had his doubts. The back of his 
 head seemed to be asleep, and there was a horrible 
 pain in his left leg when he tried to touch the 
 pavement with his foot. 
 
 "I'll want your name and address, and the names 
 of witnesses," said the conductor. He had pro- 
 duced a little note-book. 
 
 "You don't need them," declared Baron. "It 
 was my own fault. I don't want to be detained 
 here." 
 
 "But the rules require " said the conductor. 
 
 "Just forget the rules," advised the beer-driver, 
 who perceived that Baron meant what he said. 
 And in an instant Baron was feeling a new sort 
 of embarrassment, because the ruddy giant of the 
 beer-dray had picked him up in his arms, and was 
 taking long strides in the direction of his dray. 
 " Out of the way ! " he ordered, and people obeyed. 
 
 Baron had the helpless sensation of one who 
 rides on an elephant. He thought he realized now 
 just what it must be to perform the tasks of a ma- 
 hout. "Though I don't seem to need an ankus 
 yet," he meditated. Baron had read his Kipling. 
 
 "I'm sorry to trouble you," he said, speaking in 
 a general downward direction. 
 
 "You're not troubling me," came back the an- 
 swer. 
 
 269
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 The driver had reached his dray, and greatly to 
 Baron's amazement, he put a foot on the hub of 
 the wheel, a disengaged hand on the iron bar sur- 
 rounding the back of the seat, and had vaulted 
 into a sitting posture, carrying his burden with him. 
 
 It seemed to Baron that he had been swung 
 through limitless space, as if he had been a star, 
 held to its place by gravity. He held his hat in 
 place, as he might have done if a cyclone had seized 
 him in its clutch. And with such attention as he 
 could command he was observing the performance 
 of the driver. 
 
 "Sit down," commanded that individual: need- 
 lessly, for already Baron was by his side, holding 
 on to the iron bar at the back of the seat, and 
 feeling uncomfortably light and dizzy. His com- 
 panion looked into his eyes. "A pretty hard jolt," 
 he said, thrusting a protecting arm about his charge. 
 " Gee-app ! " He pulled the reins dexterously with 
 the aid of thumb and little finger, and the horses 
 began to move. 
 
 Much to Baron's surprise, the driver did not 
 ask him where he lived, but quietly turned his 
 horses' heads in the right direction, adjusting the 
 brake with his foot, and glancing ahead to see that 
 the right of way was clear. 
 
 Baron's mind reverted to Bonnie May for an 
 instant, and he remembered that she had noted 
 how the driver had held his reins with authority, 
 and sat with his great legs planted purposefully 
 before him. Yes, that was precisely right. 
 
 270
 
 Baron Comes Home on a Beer-Dray 
 
 "You haven't asked me where I live," he re- 
 marked, trying to be partly independent of his 
 companion's support. 
 
 "I don't have to. I know." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "I've noticed you before now. You're one of 
 the Barons." 
 
 The injured man felt flattered. Still, he re- 
 flected, the driver might have noticed him for any 
 number of unflattering reasons. For a moment he 
 tried to fathom this thought: Was it an evidence 
 that the driver was simple and stupid, that he had 
 interested himself in the people who lived in his 
 neighborhood? He couldn't reach a satisfactory 
 conclusion. 
 
 "It's awfully good of you to give me a lift like 
 this," he remarked. He was beginning to feel a 
 little less shaken and strange. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. You'd do as much for me, 
 wouldn't you?" 
 
 "Carry you around and lift you up on a high 
 seat?" asked Baron incredulously. 
 
 The driver threw back his immense head, reveal- 
 ing a bronzed, bull-like throat from which a sound 
 like thunder came. "Well, no, I guess you wouldn't 
 do that," he admitted. 
 
 The horses, with their ears turned alternately 
 toward the driver and pointed ahead, were brought 
 to a halt in front of the mansion. 
 
 "Now you sit up here and hold tight, and try 
 to look as if nothing had happened," directed the 
 
 271
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 driver. He removed his arm and sprang to the 
 pavement. 
 
 "Why?" Baron wanted to know. 
 
 "I want to call your old lady out, so she can see 
 you sitting up on the seat." 
 
 Baron frowned. "Why?" he asked again. 
 
 "If I'd carry you to the door and ring the bell, 
 she'd have a fit when she came out. She's pretty 
 high-strung, anyway." It was as if he were de- 
 scribing a woman of his own household, instead of 
 Baron's. 
 
 "Oh!" responded Baron. He was thinking that 
 it was difficult to know where to expect chivalry in 
 one form or another, and that there were various 
 ways of manifesting it. "I believe you're right," 
 he added. 
 
 It was Mrs. Baron who came to the door in re- 
 sponse to a ring. It is not improbable that she 
 had been looking out of the upper window. 
 
 "Your son wants to speak to you," said the 
 driver, dragging off his German cap and revealing 
 a shock of dishevelled hair. 
 
 Mrs. Baron seemed to ignore the man utterly. 
 She stood, pale and rigid, staring at Baron. She 
 comprehended at least one thing: he had driven 
 up to the door of the mansion in a beer-dray. 
 
 Then she smiled ominously. "What a quaint 
 idea!" said she, passing the driver and descend- 
 ing the steps. "Of course, this is one of your 
 jokes!" 
 
 272
 
 Baron Comes Home on a Beer- Dray 
 
 She paused then. She had swiftly become less 
 assured in her anger. 
 
 "I've had a mean fall, mother," said Baron, 
 trying to keep a martyr-like tone out of his voice. 
 "I'm afraid I'll have to be carried into the house. 
 This man was good enough to bring me home. He 
 was afraid of alarming you. It was his idea that 
 you ought to be notified before he carried me in." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't understand!" There was swift, 
 childlike remorse in her bearing. "It was kind of 
 you," she added to the driver, by way of atone- 
 ment for her rudeness. She regarded him with 
 flickering eyes. She could not help shrinking from 
 the warm, gross bulk of the man, yet she admired 
 him somewhat as a lamb might admire a benevo- 
 lent bull that has just driven a wolf away. 
 
 She went as far as the curb and looked up at 
 Baron critically. Yes, he was seriously injured. 
 Something told her that. A strained expression 
 about his lips and eyes, perhaps, and his attitude. 
 
 She turned anxiously to the driver. "Do you 
 suppose you can get him in without any help?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Sure!" The driver derived no joy from her 
 sudden discomfiture in the sudden levelling of her 
 high spirit to the lowly plane of a fearful mother. 
 Perhaps he did not realize that she had been wrath- 
 ful toward her son, and rude to him. "You go and 
 push the door open and get things ready." He 
 approached Baron and held his arms up. 
 
 273
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Baron put his hands on the immense fellow's 
 shoulders, and again he experienced that sensation 
 of being swung through space. In an instant he 
 was being borne up his own front steps. 
 
 "Can you carry him up-stairs?" inquired Mrs. 
 Baron dubiously. 
 
 "Why not?" And up the stairs the driver pro- 
 ceeded, without the slightest evident effort. 
 
 At the top Mrs. Baron led the way into Baron's 
 old room now Bonnie May's. But the driver 
 paused on the threshold, leisurely casting his eyes 
 over the evidences of feminine proprietorship. 
 
 "You'd better let me take him to his own room, 
 mother," he declared decisively. He seemed quite 
 unconscious of bearing a burden. He was woodenly 
 indifferent to Baron's efforts to get down. 
 
 "But that's up another flight," was Mrs. Baron's 
 faltering response. 
 
 "That's all right. You see, I'm used to deliver- 
 ing beer-barrels, and they always find they save 
 trouble if they let me put 'em just where they be- 
 long." 
 
 Baron, thinking of the difficulties which might 
 arise when this willing and capable Atlas was gone, 
 quite agreed with the suggestion. "I'm sure he's 
 right, mother," he said, "if he doesn't mind." 
 
 Up another flight Baron was borne, and at the 
 top the driver turned about haltingly, but still 
 seemingly unaware of having his strength taxed, 
 and called down: "You better see about getting a 
 
 274
 
 Baron Comes Home on a Beer-Dray 
 
 doctor, mother. He'll need to have himself looked 
 after. I can put him to bed." 
 
 Baron was able to grin weakly at the driver's 
 simple generalship and at the fact that his mother 
 obeyed with nervous promptitude. "That way," 
 said he, pointing, and then he essayed a little joke. 
 "I think you forgot to carry me around the block 
 a time or two before you started up here, didn't 
 you?" he asked the driver. 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing," came back the response. 
 "If I had a twelve-year-old boy who didn't weigh 
 more than you do, I'd drown him." 
 
 With this the attic room was entered, and Baron 
 was placed carefully on a chair. Then his shoes 
 and other garments were removed with caution, 
 and before he quite realized what had happened, he 
 was in bed. 
 
 "I wish I had your strength," he said, feeling 
 that such service as he had received ought to be 
 acknowledged somehow. 
 
 "What? Oh, you'd better leave that to me. 
 I need it and you don't. I guess that's about the 
 only thing I've got." 
 
 "No, it isn't. You've got the right kind of a 
 heart, too." 
 
 This created instant embarrassment. By way of 
 escape from praise, the big fellow whispered loudly : 
 "Say the word and I'll jump out and get a bucket 
 of beer before the mother gets back." 
 
 "Beer!" exclaimed Baron. He had always as- 
 
 275
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 sociated beer with festive occasions, and he was 
 quite sure the present moment was not a festive 
 occasion. "I don't believe I care for any beer 
 just now." He believed he had achieved a com- 
 mendably diplomatic stroke by adding the two last 
 words. He was prompted to add: "But if you're 
 sure your horses won't get restless, I'd be glad to 
 have you stay until mother comes." 
 
 The driver sat down, selecting a straight-backed 
 chair, and holding himself so upright that he made 
 Baron think of a huge, benevolent heathen god. 
 He had dropped his cap to the floor beside him, 
 and his hands were clasped about his capacious 
 stomach. There was now a restful placidity as 
 well as extraordinary power in his presence. 
 
 "And it isn't just your strength that I envy," 
 said Baron, catching the luminous blue eyes of the 
 driver for an instant, "it's the generous way you've 
 got of treating a fellow as if he were a brother!" 
 
 This, too, created great embarrassment. The 
 driver's face flamed and he struggled to get away 
 from anything resembling praise. "Yes, sir!" he 
 exclaimed, as if he were merely continuing, "that 
 bay horse would stand in his tracks until I came 
 back, even if the owner of the brewery tried to 
 drive him away." 
 
 Baron laughed. "Well, I won't say anything 
 more to your credit, if you don't want to hear it," 
 he said. But after a moment's silence he went on, 
 more seriously than he had yet spoken, "but do 
 
 276
 
 Baron Comes Home on a Beer-Dray 
 
 tell me, for my own good, how you manage to feel 
 so well disposed toward people toward every- 
 body!" 
 
 "Who, me? Oh, I just drink a bucket of beer 
 every time I get thirsty, and every time I begin to 
 feel mean I go out and dance with the girls pretty 
 near all night. The bigger they are the easier I 
 swing 'em." He leaned back and laughed until 
 things in the room shook. A book fell off the table. 
 
 Mrs. Baron came in with the doctor then, and 
 It remained for her to make the mistake which 
 Earon had avoided. 
 
 "You must let me pay you for your trouble," 
 she said. "I don't know what would have hap- 
 pened but for you." 
 
 But the extraordinary creature grasped his cap 
 in both hands and reddened again. "Who, me?" 
 lie said. "Oh, no, mother. I make mine flirting 
 with beer-barrels." He made his exit uneasily. 
 They heard him whistling on the stairs. In the 
 distance the front door closed with a bang. 
 
 "What an extraordinary creature!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Baron. 
 
 "Yes," replied Baron, "I'm afraid he is ex- 
 traordinary." 
 
 He was remembering something about the mis- 
 leading effects of a make-up. Surely this big fel- 
 low's immense body and his rough speech were 
 only a make-up, after all, hiding those qualities 
 which even from the standpoint of a Baron were 
 
 277
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 most to be sought and cherished! That was what 
 Bonnie May had tried to impress upon him. 
 
 Then, with sudden anxiety, Baron turned to his 
 mother. "Where is Bonnie May?" he asked. 
 
 "She went away this afternoon," was the re- 
 sponse. Mrs. Baron avoided her son's eyes. She 
 spoke rather guiltily. 
 
 "She went away," Baron mused disconsolately. 
 "And it was to-night she was so eager to have 
 somebody take her to see 'The Break of Day.' ' 
 
 278
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 BONNIE MAY HIDES SOMETHING 
 
 BARON made a wry face when he was told by Doctor 
 Percivald that he had a very badly sprained ankle, 
 and that he would have to remain on his back in- 
 definitely. 
 
 "Couldn't it have been something less lady- 
 like?" he wanted to know. But Doctor Percivald, 
 being a scientific-minded person, merely glanced 
 at him impatiently and said nothing. 
 
 However, he speedily discovered that being an 
 invalid on what might be considered a preferred 
 plan was not without its compensations. 
 
 He became the pivot around which the affairs 
 of the household revolved. He was constantly 
 being considered and deferred to. It had been so 
 long since any member of the family had been dis- 
 abled that his affliction, being very limited in ex- 
 tent, was looked upon as a sort of luxury. 
 
 However, though the family gathered about his 
 bed occasionally to hold pleasant discussions, there 
 were times when he lay alone and these were the 
 most profitable if not the most pleasant hours of all. 
 
 The noises of the street, pleasantly muffled, 
 reached him; movements in the house were faintly 
 
 279
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 audible and pleasantly homely; the sun shone with 
 a lonely brilliance against his walls. 
 
 During such periods he took an inventory of life 
 from a new angle. He sat in judgment upon him- 
 self like a disinterested person. Baron, disabled, 
 critically surveyed Baron, able to be about. 
 
 "Spendthrift of time and chance that's what 
 you are," decided Baron, disabled, directing his 
 condemnation against Baron, well and sound. 
 "You've been thinking all the time that to be 
 Baron was something fine. You haven't had sense 
 enough to realize that merely being Baron wasn't 
 being anything at all. You've got to realize that 
 all men must be measured by just one standard. 
 You've got to quit thinking it's right for you to 
 do just the pleasant things the things you like to 
 do. You have got to go to work, and take orders 
 like any other man." 
 
 Lying in his room, he obtained a new impression 
 of Bonnie May, too. 
 
 She did not return to the mansion on the day 
 of his accident. He thought she might possibly do 
 so after the theatre hour, but the evening passed 
 and in due time there were the sounds of the house 
 being closed for the night, and languid voices call- 
 ing to one another on the floor below. 
 
 The first long night passed, with occasional tap- 
 ping on the invalid's door by Mrs. Baron. A dozen 
 times during the night she came to see if he needed 
 anything, to be sure that he rested comfortably. 
 
 280
 
 Bonnie May Hides Something 
 
 Finally he chided her gayly for disturbing him 
 and herself; then, after another interval which 
 seemed only of a few minutes, he opened his eyes 
 again to respond to the tapping on the door, and 
 discovered that the sun was shining into the room. 
 It was quite late in the forenoon. 
 
 "I've come with the papers," said Flora, ap- 
 proaching his bed like a particularly lovely minis- 
 tering angel. " Mother's lying down. She didn't 
 sleep very well last night." 
 
 Baron had the odd thought that people must 
 look entirely different if you looked at them while 
 you were lying down. Never before had Flora 
 seemed so serene and beautiful and richly endowed 
 with graces of person and voice. He was so pleased 
 with this view of her that he decided not to lift 
 his head. 
 
 Then, while she arranged the papers, uncon- 
 scious of his scrutiny, he read an expression in her 
 eyes which brought him abruptly to his elbow. 
 
 "Flora," he declared, "you're not happy!" 
 
 She laughed softly as if to ridicule such a sug- 
 gestion, but immediately there was a delicate flush 
 in her face. "Nonsense!" she said. "And some- 
 body helpless in the house to worry about? One 
 wouldn't dance and sing under the circumstances. 
 I'm trying to behave becomingly that's all." 
 
 Baron disregarded this. "And as soon as I get 
 up," he said, "I'm going to see that certain non- 
 sense is ended. He's a dandy good fellow that's 
 
 281
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 what he is. I can't imagine what we've all been 
 thinking about." 
 
 "He " Flora began properly enough, but 
 the conventional falsehood she meant to utter 
 failed to shape itself. She couldn't return her 
 brother's glance. It occurred to her that the win- 
 dow-shade needed adjusting. 
 
 "I'm going to put a stop to certain nonsense," 
 Baron repeated. He rattled the newspapers with 
 decision, covertly regarding his sister, who did 
 not trust herself to speak again. She kept her 
 eyes averted as she left the room. 
 
 Flora had opened all the papers so that the 
 dramatic reviews came uppermost, and as Baron 
 glanced from one to another he forgot Flora com- 
 pletely. By the time he had glanced at the fifth 
 review of the production of "The Break of Day" 
 he dropped the papers and drew a long breath. 
 "Holy Smoke!" he exclaimed, and then he re- 
 turned to his reading. 
 
 Baggot's play had scored an almost unprece- 
 dented success. Several of the dramatic critics 
 had written signed articles in which they expressed 
 unbounded praise. And from his knowledge of 
 newspaper writing, Baron knew that even the most 
 hardened of theatregoers had been swept off their 
 feet by the charm and novelty of the new play. 
 
 Baron gathered that a new actress had been 
 added to the group of notable American artists 
 as a result of the creation of the part of "The 
 
 282
 
 Bonnie May Hides Something 
 
 Sprite." But when he sought from one account to 
 another for the name of this player, he found only 
 that the role of "The Sprite" had been played 
 "By Herself." He couldn't find her name any- 
 where, or anything about her. 
 
 But after all, the identity of even a very suc- 
 cessful player was not the thing Baron was thinking 
 of most. He was delighted that Baggot had been 
 successful. It seemed that Baggot had "arrived." 
 
 His reflections were interrupted by his mother. 
 She entered the room rather hurriedly. Baron 
 realized that something must have happened, or 
 she wouldn't have come in like that, rubbing her 
 eyes sleepily and wearing a loose wrapper. 
 
 "They're telephoning for you down at the news- 
 paper office," she yawned. "I didn't tell them 
 you were that you couldn't. ... I thought may- 
 be you might like to do some writing in bed, if they 
 want you to." 
 
 "No, I'm not going to do any writing in bed. 
 I feel as if that is what I've been doing always. 
 I'm going to wait until I can get up, and then I'm 
 going to work in earnest." 
 
 She regarded him dubiously, not understanding 
 at all. "And what shall I say?" she asked. 
 
 "Tell them I'm laid up, and that I'll be down to 
 see them as soon as I'm able to be about." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "And mother don't say I've got a sprained 
 ankle. Think of something else." 
 
 283
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Something else " Mrs. Baron succeeded 
 
 now in opening her eyes to their normal width. 
 
 "It doesn't sound very impressive. Every- 
 body sprains his ankle. You might say I've broken 
 my leg, if you can't think of anything else." 
 
 "A sprained ankle is a sprained ankle," was the 
 answer he received; and he dropped back on his 
 pillow as limply as if he had been overcome by a 
 great flash of truth. 
 
 Almost immediately, however, he heard a dis- 
 tant commotion on the stairway and, after an in- 
 stant of whispering and murmuring in the hall, 
 his door flew open. To his astonishment, Bonnie 
 May literally ran into the room. 
 
 Her face was colorless; she was staring at him. 
 
 "What happened?" she asked in a voice which 
 was unsteady. 
 
 "Nothing, child!" he exclaimed sharply. 
 "They've alarmed you. It was nothing at all. 
 Didn't mother teU you?" 
 
 "She told me there had been an accident and 
 that you were in bed. I didn't wait for any more." 
 
 "But you can see it's nothing. I can't under- 
 stand your being so excited." 
 
 She went closer to him, and he could see that her 
 body was quivering. "Is it something that wouldn't 
 have happened if I hadn't gone away?" she asked. 
 
 "It's nothing at all and it would have hap- 
 pened in any case. I've only sprained my ankle. 
 I'm ashamed to mention such a little thing. And 
 
 284
 
 Bonnie May Hides Something 
 
 for goodness' sake, don't look as if I'd had my 
 head cut off and you were to blame." 
 
 She sat down a distance from his bed, a strangely 
 unhappy little creature. Her sharp uneasiness gave 
 place to a dull, increasing apathy. She was not 
 looking at Baron now. 
 
 He couldn't stand that. "Did you see the play 
 last night?" he asked pleasantly. 
 
 She stared at him. "Did I see it? Certainly 
 not. How could I?" 
 
 She was studying his eyes, and swiftly the misery 
 in her own was multiplied many times. 
 
 He almost lost patience with her. "Well, good 
 gracious! Don't take it so much to heart. There 
 will be other chances. It made good, you know. 
 It will have a run sometime. We'll see it, you and 
 I together." 
 
 "Yes," she said, and sighed. A settled look of 
 misery returned to her eyes. 
 
 She did not leave the mansion for many days. 
 Her sprightly moods returned to her occasionally; 
 yet it was not to be ignored that in some strange 
 fashion she was changed. 
 
 She spent much of her time in Baron's room. 
 She became almost irritatingly eager to serve him. 
 She seemed to be wishing to atone for something 
 to re-establish herself in her own confidence and re- 
 spect. That was how it seemed to Baron, after he 
 had observed her studiously a score of times. 
 
 285
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Occasionally he drove her from his room, achiev- 
 ing this by gay upbraidings. He insisted upon 
 having the daily lessons attended to, and it was 
 with the liveliest interest that he listened to the 
 little tinkling melodies she played, slowly and with 
 many an error. He realized that a great deal of 
 progress was being made. His mother was patient, 
 and Bonnie May was a painstaking pupil. 
 
 Baggot came in in the course of a day or two. 
 He was cultivating a new sort of manner, in which 
 there was much condescension. His tone seemed 
 to say: "You see, I succeeded, even if you did fail 
 me."" 
 
 "I'm sure the play is going to be a winner,"^said 
 Baron. 
 
 "Oh, yes it will go all right. I'm overhauling 
 it a bit. We only gave it that first performance 
 so I could see just how to finish it, and to get our 
 copyright, and that sort of thing. It will go on 
 regularly, you know, this fall." 
 
 Baggot had received his promotion, Baron re- 
 flected. He would go forward now into a more 
 active life. He would probably be seen at the 
 mansion a tune or two again, and that would be the 
 end of him, so far as the Barons were concerned. 
 
 Another visitor during those days was the beer- 
 driver, who came to inquire about Baron's condi- 
 tion, and for further manifestations of kindness, 
 as it appeared. 
 
 286
 
 Bonnie May Hides Something 
 
 Baron tried to shake his hand, but the task was 
 too herculean. 
 
 "I might go out the back way and slip in a can, 
 if the old lady's against it," he said, flushing readily 
 and smiling. 
 
 "It just happens that I don't care for it," said 
 Baron. "I'm quite as much obliged to you." 
 
 He thought it was rather a hopeful sign that he 
 was genuinely pleased to see this man, who had 
 tried to be a good neighbor. 
 
 "August is my name," said the visitor as he 
 prepared to go. "When you're near the brewery, 
 ask for me. You could go to a dance with me some 
 night. We got a lot of fine fellows. Girls, too." 
 He said this hi the tone of one who would say: 
 "You're plenty good enough to go with me." 
 
 Then he, too, was gone. 
 
 The days passed more days than Baron liked 
 to count. And still Bonnie May did not go over 
 to the Thornburgs', but haunted Baron's room 
 early and late, between lesson hours, and tried in 
 a thousand ways to serve him. 
 
 He made curious discoveries touching her. 
 
 Often she stood by the window looking out, and 
 he marvelled to see her body become possessed by 
 some strange spirit within her. Her very flesh 
 seemed to be thinking, to be trying to become 
 articulate. And when she looked at him, after such 
 a period as this, she suddenly shrank within her- 
 
 287
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 self and gazed at him with a wistfulness so intense 
 that he felt an eager wish to help her yet also a 
 strange helplessness. 
 
 Once he cried: "You strange little creature, what 
 is it?" 
 
 But she only shook her head slowly and whis- 
 pered, "Nothing" though he saw that her eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 Finally Doctor Percivald called again three 
 weeks had passed since the patient had been put 
 to bed and announced that if Baron would con- 
 fine his activities to the house for a few days longer, 
 he might safely get up. 
 
 288
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 BONNIE MAY SEES TWO FACES AT A WINDOW 
 
 IT was at luncheon, and Baron was down-stairs 
 for the first time since his accident. 
 
 "It's just like having Johnny come back from the 
 war," observed Bonnie May, as the family took 
 their places at table. Baron, Sr., was not there. 
 He usually spent his midday hour at his club. 
 
 "From the war? Johnny?" replied Baron. He 
 stood by his chair an instant, putting most of his 
 weight on one foot. 
 
 "I mean, you can think of so many delicious 
 things. We might believe you were wounded, you 
 know, coming home to see your wife and daughter. 
 As if the sentries had allowed you to come in for 
 a little while. They would be outside now, watch- 
 ing. Men with dirty faces and heavy boots." 
 
 "Yes, if I had a wife and daughter," suggested 
 Baron. 
 
 "Oh, well Flora and I. Anyway, you've got 
 a mother, and that's the real thing when there's 
 any soldier business." 
 
 "It's a real thing, anyway," observed Mrs. Baron. 
 
 "Yes, of course," admitted the child. She sighed 
 deeply. How was any one to, get anywhere, with 
 
 289
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 so many literal-minded people about? She re- 
 membered the man in the play who said, "If we 
 are discovered, we are lost," and the other who 
 replied, "No, if we are discovered, we are found." 
 
 It was Mrs. Baron who returned to prosaic affairs. 
 
 "I'm going out this afternoon," she said briskly. 
 "I've been tied up here in the house three Thurs- 
 days. There are people I simply must call on." 
 
 Bonnie May did not know why her heart should 
 have jumped at this announcement. Still, there 
 seemed to be no end to the possibilities for enjoy- 
 ment in a big house when there wasn't anybody 
 to be saying continuously: "You must," or "You 
 mustn't." 
 
 She wandered up-stairs as soon as luncheon was 
 over, and in Baron's room she was overcome by 
 an irresistible impulse. 
 
 She heard the houseman moving about in the 
 next room, and the thought occurred to her that 
 she had never seen the houseman's room. She had 
 never even spoken to the houseman. There was 
 something quite mysterious about the fact that he 
 always kept to himself. 
 
 Mrs. Shepard had assured her on one occasion 
 that Thomason never had a word to say to any- 
 body that he was a perverse and sullen creature. 
 
 Now it occurred to her that possibly Mrs. 
 Shepard's estimate might lack fairness. Anyway, 
 it would be interesting to find out for herself. It 
 would be a kind of adventure. 
 
 290
 
 Bonnie May Sees Two Faces 
 
 She tapped lightly on Thomason's door. 
 
 After an interval of silence, during which one 
 might have thought that the room itself was amazed, 
 there was the sound of heavy feet approaching. 
 
 The door opened and Thomason stood on the 
 threshold. Bonnie May had never been near 
 enough to him really to see him before. Now she 
 discovered that he had quaint creases about his 
 mouth and eyes, and that his eyes were like violets. 
 It was as if you had dropped some violets acciden- 
 tally, and they had fallen in a strange place. There 
 was a childish expression in Thomason's eyes, and 
 it occurred to Bonnie May that possibly he was 
 afraid of people. 
 
 It seemed to her quite shocking that the little 
 man should remain by himself always, because he 
 was afraid of rningling with people. 
 
 Thomason's eyes were very bright as he looked 
 at her. Then he winked slowly, to facilitate 
 thought. He was thinking: "She's the one who 
 does whatever she pleases." Despite his habits of 
 seclusion, Thomason was by no means oblivious 
 to the life that went on in the mansion. 
 
 "May I come in?" asked Bonnie May. She did 
 not worry about the absence of a spontaneous wel- 
 come. "It's an adventure," she was thinking. 
 
 Thomason laboriously turned about, with a 
 slight list to leeward, and ambled to the middle of 
 the room, where he sat down on a bench. He took 
 up a pair of steel-rimmed glasses from which one 
 
 291
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 temple had been broken and replaced by a piece 
 of twine. He slipped the twine over his head and 
 adjusted the glasses on his nose. It seemed neces- 
 sary for him to sit quite still to keep this contri- 
 vance in place. When he reached around to his 
 bed for a coat, which he had evidently been mend- 
 ing, he held his head and body as rigid as possible. 
 
 Bonnie May advanced into the room, her hands 
 clasped before her, her eyes quite freely surveying 
 her surroundings. 
 
 "What a quaint setting!" she observed. 
 
 Thomason jerked his needle through a tough 
 place and pulled it out to arm's length, holding his 
 head with painful sedateness, on account of the 
 glasses. He seemed afraid to glance to left or right. 
 He made no reply at all. 
 
 "I've been learning to use a needle, too," she 
 confided, thinking that he did not do it very skil- 
 fully. 
 
 Thomason held his head as far back as possible 
 and closed one eye. He was thus handicapping 
 himself, it appeared, in order to get a better view 
 of the work he held on his knee. 
 
 "Would you like me to hold it, while you go 
 across the room to look?" she asked. 
 
 Thomason suddenly became quite rigid. It was 
 as if his works had run down. He was thinking 
 about what Bonnie May had said. 
 
 Then, "Women!" he muttered, and the works 
 seemed to have been wound up again. 
 
 292
 
 Thomason jerked his needle through a tough place and 
 nulled it out to arm's length.
 
 Bonnie May Sees Two Faces 
 
 This seemed a somewhat indefinite and meagre 
 return for so much cheerful effort, and Bonnie May 
 decided not to try any more just then. She went 
 to the gable window and looked out. She was 
 almost on a level with the fourth story of the build- 
 ing next door, which had been remodelled for use 
 as a boarding-house. And looking up into the 
 window nearest her, she suddenly became animated 
 in the most extraordinary manner. 
 
 A man was looking down at her, and in his eyes 
 there was a puzzled expression to match the puzzled 
 expression in her own. 
 
 She turned, with subdued excitement, to Thoma- 
 son, sitting on his bench near the middle of the 
 room, with his bed and an old trunk for a shabby 
 background. If he would only go away ! 
 
 She looked up at the man in the window opposite 
 and smiled. In a guarded tone she remarked: 
 "It's a very nice day!" and instantly she turned 
 toward Thomason again, so that he might believe 
 she was addressing him in the event of his looking 
 up from his work. 
 
 But Thomason, believing this needless remark 
 had been addressed to him, had borne enough. He 
 arose laboriously, grasping his coat in one hand 
 and his spectacles in the other, and left the room. 
 At the door there was a muttered "Women!" 
 and then a bang. 
 
 Bonnie May clasped her hands in delighted re- 
 lief and drew closer to the window. "It's Clifton !" 
 
 293
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 she exclaimed to the man in the window op- 
 posite. 
 
 "It's Bonnie May!" came back the eager re- 
 sponse. 
 
 "Oh!" she moaned. She smiled up at the man 
 across the open space helplessly. Then she took 
 her left hand into her right hand, and shook it 
 affectionately. 
 
 "You dear thing!" came back the word from 
 Clifton. "Where have you been?" 
 
 "Oh, why can't I get at you?" was Bonnie May's 
 rejoinder, and she looked down at the ground and 
 shuddered at the abysmal depths. 
 
 The man she had called Clifton disappeared for 
 a moment, and when he stood at the window again 
 there was some one close beside him, looking out 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 "And Jack, too!" she breathed eagerly, yet 
 fearfully. It occurred to her that some one must 
 hear her, and drag her back into the tedious realm 
 of conventionality again. For the moment she 
 was almost inclined to regard herself as a kid- 
 napped person, held apart from friends and res- 
 cuers. 
 
 "If it isn't the kid!" was the comment of the 
 second man, and his eyes beamed happily. 
 
 "You both rooming over there?" asked Bonnie 
 May. 
 
 "Since yesterday. We've got an engagement 
 at the Folly." 
 
 294
 
 Bonnie May Sees Two Faces 
 
 "And to think of your being within oh, I can't 
 talk to you this way ! I must get to you ! " 
 "You and Miss Barry stopping there?" 
 "Why, you see, I'm not working just now. Miss 
 Barry- 
 She stopped suddenly, her eyes filling with terror. 
 She had heard a step behind her. 
 
 Turning, she beheld Baron in the doorway. 
 "I thought I heard you talking," he said, in 
 quite a casual tone. "Was Thomason here?" 
 
 "I was talking to Thomason. My back was 
 turned. He seems to have gone out." She looked 
 about the room, even under the bed. She didn't 
 want Baron to see her eyes for a moment. "Such 
 a quaint old gentleman isn't he?" she commented. 
 She had moved away from the window. She had 
 almost regained her composure now. 
 
 Baron's brows contracted. He glanced toward 
 the window at which she had been standing. In 
 the depths of the room beyond he thought he could 
 detect a movement. He was not sure. 
 
 "Do you and Thomason talk to each other 
 quite a little?" he asked. He tried to make his 
 tone lightly inconsequential. 
 
 "That wouldn't express it, so far as he is con- 
 cerned. He won't talk to me at all. I have to do 
 all the talking." 
 
 "And do you feel quite confidential toward him ? " 
 "Why, I think you might feel safe in talking to 
 him. He doesn't seem the sort that carries tales." 
 
 295
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Baron went to the window and looked out. He 
 could see nobody. But when he confronted her 
 again his expression was harsh, there was an angry 
 light in his eyes. 
 
 "Bonnie May, you were talking to some one in 
 the other house. You were mentioning Miss Barry. 
 You weren't talking to Thomason at all." 
 
 She became perfectly still. She was now looking 
 at him steadily. "I was talking to Thomason until 
 he went out," she said. "Then, as you say, I was 
 'talking to some one in the other house.' Why? 
 Why not?" 
 
 The docility of the home life, the eagerness to 
 be pliant and sweet, fell from her wholly. An old 
 influence had been brought to bear upon her, and 
 she was now Bonnie May the actress again. For 
 the moment benefits and obligations were forgot, 
 and the old freedom was remembered. 
 
 "We don't know the people in that house," re- 
 torted Baron. 
 
 "That isn't my fault. I happen to know two of 
 them. If you like I'll introduce you. Very clever 
 people." Her tone was almost flippant. 
 
 Baron was astounded. "You've found friends!" 
 he said. He couldn't help speaking with a slight 
 sneer. 
 
 "You don't do it very well," she said. "I could 
 show you how, if you cared to learn though it's 
 rather out of date." 
 
 "Bonnie May!" he cried reproachfully. 
 296
 
 Bonnie May Sees Two Faces 
 
 "You made me do it!" she said, suddenly for- 
 lorn and regretful. "I didn't do anything. That's 
 a rooming-house over there, and I happened to see 
 two old friends of mine at the window. They were 
 glad to see me, and I was glad to see them. That's 
 all." Her expression darkened with discourage- 
 ment. She added: "And I wasn't quite untruthful. 
 I had been talking to Thomason." 
 
 Baron meditatively plucked his lower lip be- 
 tween his finger and thumb. "I was wrong," he 
 said. "I admit, I was in the wrong." He tried 
 to relieve the situation by being facetious. "You 
 know I've been an invalid," he reminded her. 
 "And people are always patient with invalids." 
 
 "It's all right," she said. And he had the dis- 
 quieting realization that she had grown quite 
 apart from him, for the moment at least, and that 
 it didn't matter to her very much now whether he 
 was disagreeable or not. 
 
 She sighed and walked absent-mindedly from the 
 room. She remembered to turn in the doorway 
 and smile at him amiably. But he felt that the 
 action was polite, rather than spontaneous. 
 
 And he reflected, after she had gone away, that 
 she hadn't volunteered to say a word about the 
 people she had talked to through the window. 
 
 297
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 A GATHERING IN THE ATTIC 
 
 WHEN Bonnie May went down-stairs and learned 
 that Mrs. Baron had gone out calling, she entered 
 her own room and pushed her door partly shut, 
 so that she would be invisible to any one passing. 
 
 Her most earnest wish, for the moment, was to 
 see her two friends next door. Of course, she would 
 see them before long, but she did not like to leave 
 the matter to chance. 
 
 There was no reason why she should not simply 
 go to their front door, and knock and ask for them. 
 No reason; but undoubtedly a prejudice. The 
 Barons wouldn't approve of such a thing. She 
 really hadn't been aware of the existence of the 
 house next door until now. She realized that there 
 were worlds between the people who lived over 
 there and the people who lived in the mansion. 
 So far as she was concerned, the Barons were a 
 Family, while Heaven only knew what those other 
 people were. 
 
 Well, she would think of some way of getting at 
 Clifton and Jack some other time. Something 
 would happen. And in the meantime, Mrs. Baron 
 was gone and there were various things which 
 
 298
 
 A Gathering in the Attic 
 
 might be done now which couldn't be done at any 
 other time. 
 
 Rummaging among her possessions in search of 
 an inspiration she came upon a hat covered with 
 little silk butterflies. 
 
 She had the liveliest appreciation of the silk 
 butterflies, though she did not quite approve of 
 the shape of the hat upon which they were ^be- 
 stowed. On the other hand, there was a hat of 
 adorable shape which had an insufficient decora- 
 tion in the form of a spray of roses which were not 
 of the right color, and which were in too advanced 
 a stage of development. 
 
 In another moment a small pair of scissors was 
 travelling over one of the hats with a snipping 
 sound and a startlingly destructive effect. 
 
 The snipping was not suspended until voices, 
 subdued and confidential, arose in the near-by 
 sitting-room. 
 
 Baron had come down-stairs, too, and was talk- 
 ing to Flora. 
 
 "The thing for us to do," Baron was saying, "is 
 to go places, and let him know about it beforehand. 
 Any place at all. For a walk in the park, or to the 
 theatre. I wouldn't be in the way. I would know 
 what to do. And after that is to say, when. . . . 
 What I mean is that in the course of time you could 
 just tell mother that you've made up your mind, 
 and that it's your business, and not hers. The 
 thing is absurd. She's got no reasons. We've no 
 
 299
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 right to let her have her own way entirely in such 
 a case." 
 
 Bonnie May dropped the hat into her lap, and 
 paid no attention to the shower of butterflies and 
 roses which fell to the carpet. Quite stealthily she 
 went out into the hall. A moment of indecision 
 and then she descended the stairs to the first 
 floor. 
 
 "There's that to be attended to, too," she was 
 reflecting. 
 
 She went to the telephone immediately. She 
 had noiselessly closed the dining-room door, so she 
 wouldn't be heard. And after very little delay she 
 had Mr. Addis on the other end of the wire. 
 
 "It's Bonnie May," she said in response to 
 Addis's greeting. "I called you up to tell you that 
 you're wanted here this afternoon. It's really im- 
 portant. I think, honestly, you ought to come. 
 Can you?" 
 
 "Why, yes, certainly!" came back the vigorous 
 and pleasant voice of Addis. "Yes, I'll come right 
 away." 
 
 In the hall she paused, thrilled by the contempla- 
 tion of a good, forbidden deed. Then the warm 
 sunlight, finding its way in through the ground- 
 glass door, enticed her, and she went out into the 
 vestibule. There she stood looking out on the 
 street. 
 
 Clearly, fate was on her side. 
 
 Almost immediately two immaculately dressed 
 300
 
 A Gathering in the Attic 
 
 gentlemen, moving with superb elegance, passed 
 the gate. 
 
 Bonnie May ran down the steps, calling to them. 
 "Clifton!" was the word that penetrated the chaos 
 of street noises, and "Oh, Jack!" 
 
 The two gentlemen turned about, and at the 
 sight of the child they became far less correct in 
 their general deportment. Happiness made them 
 quite unconscious of self. 
 
 Very shortly afterward a little girl was sitting 
 between two altogether presentable gentlemen on 
 the top step in front of the Baron mansion. 
 
 "Of course we shouldn't," admitted Bonnie May. 
 "We never sit on the front steps. I mean, the 
 Family. But nobody will know. And, besides, I 
 don't see how we can help ourselves." 
 
 "We don't mind at all," Clifton assured her. 
 He looked inquiringly over his shoulder, into the 
 vestibule. "What is it? an old ladies' home?" 
 
 "Not exactly. It's one old lady's home, and you 
 couldn't get in without a jimmy or a letter of in- 
 troduction. She used to be a Boone." 
 
 "Of course that explains it," said Clifton. 
 "What are you doing here? Does she give private 
 theatricals?" 
 
 "Not intentionally. No, I'm the little daughter 
 of the house a kind of Little Eva, without any 
 dogs or fiddles, and I have to go to bed at nine 
 o'clock, and take lessons. It's really a wonderful 
 place. When we all sit down to the table it it 
 
 301
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 sticks. When I get across with anything neat no- 
 body whistles. Far from it." 
 
 Clifton and Jack accepted all this as quite defi- 
 nitely informative. 
 
 "Domesticated," explained Clifton to Jack, who 
 nodded. 
 
 "How did you find them?" Jack wanted to 
 know. 
 
 "They found me. There's a Romeo in the house 
 who's the real thing. Love me, love my Romeo. 
 That's how I feel about him. He brought me here." 
 
 "But where- 
 
 "You see, Miss Barry wished me onto one of the 
 theatres here last spring when the going got rough. 
 Put me down and disappeared. .And he found me. 
 I wish to goodness you and he could get acquainted. 
 You know that I was a baby only a few years back. 
 But just because I don't cry for bread and milk 
 here they seem to think I'm Mrs. Tom Thumb 
 come back to earth. You could tell them." 
 
 Clifton and Jack leaned back as far as they 
 safely could and laughed heartily. Then they 
 drew painfully sedate faces and sprang to their 
 feet. A soft yet decisive voice the voice of_a 
 young woman sounded behind them. 
 
 When Bonnie May turned around she realized 
 that she and her two friends were standing in a 
 line on the bottom step, looking up into the faces 
 of Baron and Flora, who had made their appearance 
 in the vestibule. 
 
 302
 
 A Gathering in the Attic 
 
 Flora was .smiling in a pleasantly mischievous 
 manner. Baron was regarding the two actors crit- 
 ically, yet not with unfriendliness. 
 
 "Won't you introduce your friends?" asked 
 Flora. 
 
 Bonnie May did so. She concluded with, "old 
 friends of mine in the profession." 
 
 "If I might suggest," said Flora, "it's ever so 
 much more comfortable in the house, if you don't 
 mind coming in." She turned to Baron with slightly 
 heightened color. Her glance seemed to say: "You 
 can see they are gentlemen." Something of con- 
 straint passed from her eyes when Baron pushed 
 the door open and turned to the two men, who were 
 "in the profession," and led the way into the house. 
 
 "Delighted," said Clifton, mounting the steps, 
 followed by the other actor. 
 
 "You're very welcome on your own account," 
 said Baron, "and, besides, we all like to do any- 
 thing we can to please Mrs. Tom Thumb." 
 
 He glanced sharply at Bonnie May, who nodded 
 in her best manner and remarked, with delicacy of 
 intonation: "Caught with the goods!" 
 
 The little joke paved the way for really comfort- 
 able intercourse, and there was a highly satis- 
 factory condition of sociability in the sitting-room 
 up-stairs half an hour later when the street bell 
 rang. 
 
 It rang as if it were in the nature of a challenge. 
 And the ring was almost immediately repeated. 
 
 303
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Mrs. Shepard must be out," said Flora. She 
 went to respond. 
 
 It was only the McKelvey girls, after all. Bon- 
 nie May heard their gay voices in the lower hall. 
 And it occurred to her that there was danger of 
 certain complications complications which might 
 not be wholly agreeable. 
 
 She turned to Baron. "You know we've a hun- 
 dred things to talk about old times and old friends. 
 Couldn't we go up into your room until the com- 
 pany goes?" She referred to herself and the actors, 
 of course. 
 
 In his heart Baron could have blessed her for the 
 thought. The McKelvey girls were on their way 
 up-stairs, and he was not sure about the propriety 
 of bringing the McKelvey girls into even a fleeting 
 relationship with two actors whom none of them 
 knew. 
 
 "Why, if you like," he said, with an air of re- 
 luctance which he fully overcame by the prompt- 
 ness with which he arose and got the child and her 
 friends started on their way. 
 
 Flora might have decided to entertain her callers 
 in the room down-stairs, if she had had any choice 
 in the matter. But the McKelvey girls had always 
 felt wholly at home in the mansion, and they had 
 begun climbing the stairs before Flora closed the 
 street door. 
 
 Flora paused for an instant, changing from one 
 arm to the other the huge bundle of flowers the 
 
 304
 
 A Gathering in the Attic 
 
 elder Miss McKelvey had thrust at her upon en- 
 tering. A wan, resigned smile trembled on her 
 lips, and then she tossed her head ever so slightly. 
 
 "Oh, what's the difference!" she exclaimed to 
 herself, and then she followed the others up the 
 broad flight of stairs. 
 
 Still, she was somewhat relieved to find no one 
 but her brother in the room into which the visitors 
 led the way. She did not know just what had hap- 
 pened, but she did not ask any questions. And 
 then she heard the murmur of voices up in the 
 attic, and understood. 
 
 She brought a vase and put the flowers into it. 
 "Don't they look beautiful?" she asked. She had 
 to lift her voice a little, because both of the Mc- 
 Kelvey girls were talking at once. 
 
 "They certainly do!" came the response in a 
 wholly unexpected voice, and Flora turned and 
 beheld the animated face of Mrs. Harrod, framed 
 in the doorway. 
 
 "Mrs. Shepard asked me to come on up," said 
 Mrs. Harrod. She looked about her as if the room 
 were empty. "Flora," she demanded, "where's 
 that child ? " She had laid eager hands upon Flora's 
 shoulders and kissed her flushed cheek with genuine 
 affection. She had also taken a second to glance 
 at the McKelvey girls and say: "How-do, young 
 ladies?" 
 
 "Child?" echoed Miss Baron. 
 
 "That perfect little creature who was here the 
 
 305
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 last time I was. I did hope she'd let me in again. 
 Such angelic manners! You don't mean to say 
 you've let her go?" 
 
 "Oh, Bonnie May! No, she hasn't gone. She's 
 quite one of us now. Where is she, Victor?" 
 
 Baron fidgeted. "She went up into the attic, I 
 believe." 
 
 Mrs. Harrod made for the hall immediately. 
 "I'm sure you don't mind," she said, without 
 turning around. They heard her climbing the 
 second flight of stairs. "You young people won't 
 miss me," she called back. 
 
 The younger Miss McKelvey suddenly sat up 
 very straight. "What's the matter with you, 
 Flora Baron?" she demanded. 
 
 "The matter?" 
 
 "The way you're looking at Victor yes, and the 
 way he's looking at you. What's the mystery?" 
 
 Flora listened. Up-stairs a door opened and shut, 
 and then there was silence. "I was wondering if 
 Mrs. Harrod would find things just to her liking 
 up there," she explained. 
 
 "Oh! Well, if she doesn't, it will be her own 
 fault. People who take possession of a house can't 
 be too particular." 
 
 "I suppose not," admitted Flora thoughtfully. 
 She was listening intently again. There was a 
 movement down-stairs. Mrs. Shepard was serenely 
 complaining to herself on the ground of many in- 
 terruptions. The street door opened and shut and 
 
 306
 
 A Gathering in the Attic 
 
 Flora heard resonant, familiar tones. Baron heard 
 them, too. 
 
 "I'll see," Mrs. Shepard was heard to say, and 
 then there was the sound of her heavy tread on the 
 stairs. 
 
 Again Flora and Victor looked at each other 
 dubiously. 
 
 "What is the matter with you?" demanded Miss 
 McKelvey the other Miss McKelvey, this time. 
 
 Flora leaned back against the mantel almost 
 limply and laughed not the laugh of Bonnie May's 
 lessons, but the old contralto gurgle. "Nothing," 
 she said. Her cheeks flamed, her eyes were filled 
 with a soft light. 
 
 "Mr. Addis has called to see Miss Baron," an- 
 nounced Mrs. Shepard truculently in the doorway. 
 
 "I'll go right down," said Flora. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the elder Miss McKelvey. 
 
 "Oh!" echoed her sister. 
 
 They arose as by a common impulse and stole 
 out into the hall. "We don't care if we do," they 
 flung back in a whisper as they tiptoed to the 
 stair railing. They came hurrying back with ec- 
 static twitterings. "You know you never enter- 
 tain company in that dark room down-stairs, Flora 
 Baron ! You've got to bring him up !" 
 
 Flora gazed at them in rebellious misery. 
 
 "Well, then," exclaimed the younger Miss Mc- 
 Kelvey, seizing her sister's hand, "we'll go up into 
 the attic!" 
 
 307
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 And they were gone. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Flora hopelessly, "it shows what 
 one criminal act will lead to !" 
 
 "There was no criminal act," retorted Baron. 
 "Nothing is really wrong. Have him up!" His 
 tone seemed to say: "Assert your right! I'll back 
 you up !" 
 
 He went to the head of the stairway. "Come 
 right up, Addis," he called. He tried to throw a 
 great deal of cordiality into his voice. 
 
 Flora's hands went to her temples in a gesture 
 of despair. "You invited him here in mother's 
 absence you know you did ! " she cried. 
 
 "I didn't. But I wouldn't care if I had. I'd 
 have done it if I'd had the wit to think of it. Why 
 shouldn't he come?" 
 
 "I won't have him come in this way. Until 
 mother " She slipped from the room without 
 finishing her sentence. 
 
 "What do you intend to do?" demanded 
 Baron. 
 
 "There's only one thing to do. I think I may 
 be needed elsewhere just now. I'm going up into 
 the attic." 
 
 But as she made her escape she glanced down 
 the stairs. Somebody was coming up. There was 
 the stubborn black hair, the ruddy cheeks, and the 
 close-cropped black mustache 
 
 But she was gone. 
 
 Mr. Addis mounted the stairs with the determina- 
 308
 
 A Gathering in the Attic 
 
 tion of one who goes more than half-way to meet 
 destiny. 
 
 "Come in!" called Baron. "Excuse me for not 
 coming to meet you. You know I've got a bad 
 ankle." 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Addis, whose robust presence 
 somehow had the effect of making all the aspects 
 of the room eff emulate and trivial. "You were 
 expecting me?" 
 
 "No that is," bungled Baron, "we're delighted 
 to have you call." 
 
 Addis reflected. "And Miss Baron?" he asked. 
 
 "She's up in the attic just now. There are some 
 callers, I believe." 
 
 A dull flush mounted to the visitor's forehead. 
 "I'm afraid I made a mistake," he said. He arose, 
 casting a keen glance at Baron. 
 
 "You didn't. You didn't make any mistake at 
 all. We won't wait for them to come down. Come, 
 let's follow, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Follow " said Addis. 
 
 "We'll go up to the attic." 
 
 39
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 WHAT HAPPENED IN THE ATTIC 
 
 WHEN Bonnie May got up into the attic she gave 
 one swift thought to the fact that Mr. Addis would 
 be coming to the house before long, and that she 
 would not be free to receive him. Flora would be 
 surprised to see him; but then, she concluded, 
 Flora ought to think all the more highly of him if 
 she decided that he had come without waiting for 
 an invitation. 
 
 Then her mind was diverted from Mr. Addis and 
 his affairs. It was diverted by an impulse which 
 compelled her to put her arms swiftly about Clif- 
 ton's neck, and Jack's, and express again her joy 
 at seeing them. 
 
 "You dear boys!" she exclaimed, "it makes me 
 feel so good and so bad to see you again. Oh, 
 those old days!" 
 
 They all found chairs, and for a little tune Bon- 
 nie May leaned forward in hers, her shoulders 
 drooping, her eyes filled with yearning. Then she 
 aroused herself. "Do you remember the time we 
 went to Cheyenne in a sort of coach, and the sol- 
 diers made us have dinner a Christmas dinner 
 with them?" she asked. 
 
 310
 
 What Happened in the Attic 
 
 Clifton remembered. He said: "And you put 
 on a cap that came way down over your eyes, and 
 ran into the fat old captain who had come in 'un- 
 beknownst,' as one of the soldiers said, to inspect 
 the quarters ! " 
 
 Said Bonnie May: "And the soldiers wanted us 
 to change our play, 'The Captain's Daughter,' so 
 that it would be a military play instead of a sea 
 story!" 
 
 There was a moment of silence, and then, for no 
 apparent reason, the child and her visitors joined 
 in a chorus of laughter. 
 
 "That old play I remember every word of the 
 heroine's part!" said Bonnie May. "She wasn't 
 much, was she? I remember wishing I was big 
 enough to have the part instead of her." 
 
 She shook her head gently in the ecstasy of re- 
 calling the old atmosphere, the old ambitions, the 
 old adventures. Then she clasped her hands and 
 exclaimed: "Let's do an act of it, just for fun! 
 Oh, let's do ! If you could only think how hungry 
 I've been " 
 
 She did not wait for an answer. She hurried to 
 Thomason's door and knocked. Her movements 
 expressed a very frenzy of desire of need. When 
 Thomason did not respond she opened his door, and 
 looked into his room. 
 
 "He's not here!" she exclaimed. "Come his 
 things will make the grandest sailors out of you!" 
 She had them in Thomason's room in no time. 
 
 3"
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "But we can't both be sailors," objected Jack. 
 " We'll need a captain." 
 
 "We'll imagine him. He'll be out of sight some- 
 where." She opened Thomason's trunk. 
 
 "It's not Romeo's, is it?" asked Clifton du- 
 biously. 
 
 Bonnie May only emitted a little scream of de- 
 light. She had caught sight of two red bandanna 
 handkerchiefs. She had them out swiftly. Also 
 a new canvas coat, and an old one. 
 
 Then she heard some one entering the room. 
 Thomason came and stood beside her, to see what 
 she was doing. He looked into the trunk as if he 
 were curious to see what was in it. 
 
 Her manner betrayed no confusion at all. "So 
 glad you've come!" she said. "It's going to be a 
 play. Oh, the very thing ! You can be one of the 
 sailors, Thomason, and then we can have the cap- 
 tain, too." She appealed to Clifton and Jack. 
 "Won't he make a perfectly splendid sailor?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 They agreed that he would be an ideal sailor. 
 
 Thomason hadn't the slightest idea what it all 
 meant. But when she tied one of the red bandanna 
 handkerchiefs in a special fashion around the neck 
 of one of the actors, he concluded that it was going 
 to be some kind of a game. Or possibly he feared 
 he was going to lose his handkerchiefs. 
 
 "Put one on me!" he suggested. 
 
 And Bonnie May put one on him. 
 312
 
 What Happened in the Attic" 
 
 Then she happened to look at one of the window- 
 shades. "Earrings!" she exclaimed. "They used 
 to look so delightfully wicked ! " 
 
 With Clifton's aid she removed several brass 
 rings from the window-shades. 
 
 "I won't need them," said Clifton. "You know 
 I was the captain." 
 
 So the rings were hung in Jack's ears and Thoma- 
 son's. 
 
 "Splendid!" cried Bonnie May. She inspected 
 the result critically. "If we only had Tlioma- 
 son, is there any blacking?" 
 
 Thomason found a box of blacking in Baron's 
 room. 
 
 She dipped her finger into it and drew a series 
 of sinister lines across Jack's unlined face. 
 
 Clifton proffered a criticism. "You're putting 
 on too much. He's to be a sailor not a pirate." 
 
 "No, only a sailor. But he ought to look a little 
 frightful." She stood back hi admiration of her 
 work. 
 
 Thomason had begun more clearly to under- 
 stand. "Put some on me," he invited. 
 
 Clifton, in the meantime, had found a golf cap 
 which had been handed down from Baron to Thoma- 
 son. It did not make a thoroughly realistic captain 
 of him, but it was the best he could do. He was 
 trying to recall some of the telling phrases in "The 
 Captain's Daughter." He could improvise, if 
 necessary. He looked on seriously while Bonnie
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 May put the finishing touches on Thomason's 
 face. 
 
 It was then that Mrs. Harrod appeared. 
 
 "Oh! I'm sure I'm intruding!" she cried. She 
 looked with profound amazement at every face in 
 the room. 
 
 "You're not intruding at all!" declared Bonnie 
 May. "It's to be a play, you know. You can be 
 the audience, if you will." 
 
 Mrs. Harrod began to laugh almost helplessly. 
 Then she checked herself, because she perceived 
 that Bonnie May was deeply in earnest. 
 
 "Of course!" she responded. "I make a very 
 good audience. I'll be delighted to help." 
 
 She took a chair and became, immediately, a 
 highly inspiring audience. Still, she was amazed. 
 She had never been told by any of the Barons that 
 Bonnie May had formerly been "of the profes- 
 sion." 
 
 "We'll do only the third act," decided Bonnie 
 May, addressing the two actors, "where the ship 
 sinks, and the raft is seen at sea." She ended by 
 glancing at Mrs. Harrod, who nodded as if she 
 really preferred to witness only the third act. 
 
 "We'll need a raft, of course," she said. She 
 glanced about the room. The trunk was not large 
 enough to hold two and contribute to a realistic 
 effect. "It will have to be the bed," she decided. 
 "Thomason, you and Jack will sit on the bed. 
 And you'll have to remember that you're on a
 
 What Happened in the Attic 
 
 raft in a storm. The storm is so severe that you 
 nearly fall off the raft." 
 
 "Is it?" asked Thomason. He seemed incred- 
 ulous. 
 
 "It will be. Jack will let you know when. You 
 look at him once in a while and do just as he does." 
 
 There was an explosion of shrill laughter in the 
 adjoining room, and then the McKelvey girls ap- 
 peared. 
 
 They seemed quite startled and ready to run, 
 even after they saw Mrs. Harrod. 
 
 But Mrs. Harrod reassured them. "Come right 
 in," she called cordially. "It's to be a play, and 
 as yet we have a miserably small audience." 
 
 They drifted a little farther into the room, wide- 
 eyed. 
 
 It was here that Clifton rebelled. "Oh, look 
 here," he protested, "it will look so silly!" 
 
 "Just because we have an audience!" retorted 
 Bonnie May blankly. Then, with feeling: "If 
 you've got used to playing to empty seats, it will 
 do you good to have somebody looking at you. 
 Now, do be sensible." 
 
 "I shall be awfully disappointed not to see the 
 play that is, the third act," protested Mrs. Har- 
 rod. 
 
 "Well, go ahead," said Clifton. But he looked 
 decidedly shamefaced. 
 
 Bonnie May took her position in the middle of 
 the room. She meant to explain what it was they 
 
 315
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 about to do. She did not know that Flora 
 had come in and was standing just inside the door; 
 nor did she know that Victor and Mr. Addis also 
 arrived a moment later. 
 
 "This is the situation," she began. "I am the 
 daughter of the captain of a sailing vessel. Two 
 of the sailors love me, but they have to keep still 
 about it, because I am so far above them. We're 
 all on the ship, on a voyage, you understand. I 
 love one of the sailors, but I'm afraid to admit it 
 for fear my father will be angry. Then one of the 
 sailors speaks to my father about his love for me, 
 you know. But my father tells him he must never 
 be guilty of such boldness again. Then the two 
 sailors lead a mutiny, in the hope of getting control 
 of the ship. But the mutiny fails, and the two 
 leaders are put in irons. 
 
 "I feel so sorry for them that I plan their escape. 
 I know I cannot marry either of them, but I pity 
 them just the same. So I take some of the rest of 
 the crew into my confidence, and they make a 
 raft in secret. Then one night when we are with- 
 in sight of land I get the other sailors to let them 
 go the two men who are in irons and throw them 
 overboard, together with the raft. I mean it all 
 for their own good, though they make the mis- 
 take of thinking I wish to have them murdered. 
 Of course, my father isn't allowed to know anything 
 about all this. It's done while he is asleep." 
 
 "A likely story!" interpolated Clifton. 
 316
 
 What Happened in the Attic 
 
 "A very fine situation," amended Bonnie May. 
 "It is arranged that the sailors who have helped 
 me are to tell my father, when he wakes up, that 
 the two prisoners made their escape and were try- 
 ing to murder him, when they, the other sailors, 
 threw them overboard in a desperate fight. 
 
 "Then comes the third act, which we are about 
 to present. A storm comes up and the ship strikes 
 a rock. We are about to sink when the raft drifts 
 into sight. The two sailors who were prisoners are 
 on it. My father urges me to join the sailors on the 
 raft, so that I may be saved. But I know they 
 believe I plotted their murder, and I am as much 
 afraid of them as I am of the sinking ship. The 
 climax comes when the ship sinks and I am thrown 
 into the sea. Of course the two sailors rescue me. 
 Now we will imagine that the curtain has just gone 
 up on the third act." 
 
 She turned for an inspection of the "company," 
 and caught sight of Flora, Victor, and Mr. Addis 
 just inside the doorway. 
 
 "Don't mind us," said Flora. "We hope we're 
 not interrupting." 
 
 But Bonnie May was not to be embarrassed now. 
 She scarcely took pains to answer beyond a swift 
 "Not at all !" She was earnestly shaping her mood 
 for the work ahead of her. 
 
 Her intensity had created a really strange at- 
 mosphere. Nothing louder than a whisper could be 
 heard in the room, and even whispering soon ceased.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Now, captain or father take your place on 
 the bridge, where you belong." 
 
 Clifton proceeded with the utmost seriousness to 
 climb up on Thomason's table. He stood at one end, 
 so that there would be room for Bonnie May also. 
 
 "The sailors will now take their places on the 
 raft," was the next order. "You know, you're 
 not supposed to be visible until you hear the line, 
 'the ship is sinking/ and then you want to re- 
 member that you are in a violent storm." 
 
 Jack and Thomason climbed to the middle of 
 the bed and sat down awkwardly, both looking in 
 the same direction, like rowers in a boat. 
 
 "And remember you have paddles in your hands," 
 reminded Bonnie May. 
 
 "I have a paddle," responded Jack. 
 
 "I ain't," objected Thomason. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have," declared Jack, "one just 
 like mine." He took a stroke with an imaginary 
 paddle, held suitably. 
 
 "Well I have a paddle," conceded Thomason. 
 
 Bonnie May then was helped to the "bridge," 
 beside Clifton. 
 
 Clifton began. He was not quite sure about the 
 lines, but he recalled the situation clearly enough. 
 "Best go below, my daughter," were the words 
 which filled the room with a ringing effect. "I 
 have not seen a gull since the second watch ended, 
 and they do not hide from ordinary storms. I 
 fear we may be caught in a tempest."
 
 "Look at them ! " she screamed. "Look ! Look ! "
 
 What Happened in the Attic 
 
 Bonnie May clasped her hands in a frenzy of 
 earnestness. Her words came with intense elo- 
 quence: "Let me stay with you, father. I fear 
 no storm while I am by your side." 
 
 Her voice filled the room with tones which were 
 intense, even, resonant, golden. 
 
 Mrs. Harrod, regarding her incredulously, put 
 out a hand and touched Flora on the arm. No 
 one else stirred. 
 
 There came Clif ton's response: "But, child, I 
 tell you Davy Jones's locker fairly gapes in gales 
 like this. I bid you go below." 
 
 The response came with even greater intensity: 
 "But tell me first, father: Would a raft live in such 
 a sea as this?" 
 
 So the rather silly lines were repeated, back and 
 forth. But they scarcely seemed silly. The two 
 players were putting a tremendous earnestness into 
 them, and the "audience" felt no inclination at all 
 to smile. 
 
 The two players came to the point in the story 
 where the ship struck a rock, and their intensity 
 was more than doubled. The raft began its part 
 in the scene, but nobody looked at it for a time. 
 
 Clifton was trying to compel Bonnie May to 
 consent to board the raft. He had seized her arm 
 roughly and was threatening her. She screamed 
 her refusal. Then it came time for her to behold 
 the murderous looks on the faces of the two men on 
 the raft.
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "Look at them!" she screamed. "Look! 
 Look!" She pointed at the raft, her eyes wide 
 with terror. The "audience" could not refrain 
 from looking at the raft. 
 
 Jack and Thomason were wielding their paddles 
 with great vigor. Jack had also begun to lurch 
 from right to left, as a man might do in a storm- 
 tossed raft. Thomason, catching the drift of things, 
 was imitating him. 
 
 And then, unfortunately, Thomason's bed gave 
 way. With an ear-splitting crash it collapsed, just 
 as Bonnie May screamed: "Look ! Look !" 
 
 And of course it was at that precise instant that 
 Mrs. Baron came rushing into the room. 
 
 320
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 AFTER THE CURTAIN WAS LOWERED 
 
 MRS. BARON had returned from her calling expedi- 
 tion earlier than she had expected to. She had had 
 a feeling that something might go wrong. Pre- 
 science is really a wonderful thing. 
 
 Now as the poor lady stood within Thomason's 
 room she was quite terrified. For the moment there 
 had been a dreadful din. And now, looking at 
 Thomason, she caught the rebellious expression in 
 his round, innocent eyes. She saw that he had 
 brass rings in his ears. Unfortunately she did not 
 associate the brass rings with the window blinds. 
 And his face was horribly streaked. His right leg 
 was sticking up in air quite inelegantly, and he 
 was clawing at some other unspeakable person in 
 an effort to regain his equilibrium. 
 
 And then there was Bonnie May, with an insane 
 light in her eyes. And behind Bonnie May was a 
 smirking creature who grinned maliciously at Mrs. 
 Baron, as if he and she shared some guilty secret 
 in common. Certainly she did not know the man. 
 
 Moreover, there stood Flora, looking unspeak- 
 ably demure, with the man Addis by her side. 
 Addis was looking as if her arrival had provoked 
 
 321
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 him. His look seemed to say: "If you don't like 
 it, why don't you run along?" 
 
 Mrs. Baron did not stop to take in any of the 
 others. At first she was speechless, as the saying 
 is, though she was trying to shape certain com- 
 ments which she meant to direct at Bonnie May. 
 
 She opened her mouth once and again quite 
 helplessly. Then she found her voice. 
 
 "You little limb of Satan!" The words came 
 with difficulty. In that instant her features looked 
 quite unlovely. Bonnie May might have told her 
 that elderly people ought never, under any circum- 
 stances, to become violently angry. But Bonnie 
 May was in no condition to utter elemental 
 truths. 
 
 "You awful little wretch!" added Mrs. Baron. 
 "No sooner do I turn my back than you disgrace 
 me ! You open my door to the whole street ! " 
 
 Bonnie May was blinking rapidly. She was very 
 pale. If you dreamed that you were finding large 
 sums of money, and some one threw a bucket of 
 cold water on you, and you woke up to find yourself 
 in the poorhouse that perhaps fairly describes her 
 mental state. 
 
 She had not been quite sorry that the bed col- 
 lapsed. Some of the secondary cells in her brain 
 had been warning her, as she stood on the "bridge," 
 that the third act could scarcely be made to come 
 to a true climax. She couldn't be projected into 
 the sea really. She would have to step tamely 
 
 322
 
 After the Curtain Was Lowered 
 
 down from the table and begin to talk in a common- 
 place fashion. 
 
 Under favorable conditions the collapse of the 
 bed would have been a relief. 
 
 But now she stood looking at Mrs. Baron try- 
 ing to reach her soul through her angry eyes. She 
 shrank so from being humiliated before her friends 
 the old and the new. If Mrs. Baron, who had 
 been so kind in many unimportant ways and times, 
 could only spare her now ! 
 
 "If you will permit me, madam " began Clif- 
 ton. 
 
 "Who are these gentlemen?" demanded Mrs. 
 Baron, still wrathfully regarding Bonnie May 
 Bonnie May and no other. 
 
 "They are my friends," said Bonnie May. " They 
 have known me always. And really, you know, 
 we weren't doing anything wrong !" 
 
 Clifton had assisted her to the floor; and now, 
 after an appealing step in Mrs. Baron's direction, 
 and the swift conclusion that nothing she could do 
 would save the situation, she broke into tears and 
 staggered from the room. 
 
 "Bonnie May!" called Clifton, with overflowing 
 solace in his tone. He ran after Bonnie May. The 
 other actor, casting brass rings and red bandanna 
 to the floor, followed. 
 
 "Emily Boone!" The voice was Mrs. Harrod's. 
 "I think you might blame us, if it's all so terrible. 
 We encouraged her. We enjoyed it." 
 
 323
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Mrs. Baron now turned toward the assembled 
 group. She seemed dazed. "I I didn't know 
 you were here!" she said, her voice trembling 
 weakly. And then "I don't care ! What would 
 any woman do, coming home and finding strangers 
 and and such a scene in her house?" 
 
 "We invited them in, mother," confessed Baron 
 weakly. 
 
 "Yes," echoed Flora, "they were old companions 
 of Bonnie May's, and we thought it would be nice 
 to invite them in!" 
 
 "And I suppose you invited him in, too?" 
 retaliated Mrs. Baron, indicating Addis by a scorn- 
 ful, slight movement of her head. 
 
 The effect of this upon Flora was most distress- 
 ing. Could her mother so far forget herself as to 
 reveal family differences in the presence of Mrs. 
 Harrod and the McKelvey girls? Her wounded 
 eyes fairly begged for mercy. 
 
 Addis promptly came to her relief. 
 
 "No, she didn't, Mrs. Baron. I just dropped 
 in." His voice, by reason of its bigness and calm- 
 ness, had the effect of making every one in the 
 room feel how petty and needless had been the 
 unpleasantness which Mrs. Baron's arrival had 
 created. His hair seemed more bristling than ever 
 as he added: "If you will permit me, I'll bid you 
 good day." He made a rather stiff bow, which 
 was meant to include every one in the room, and 
 turned to go. 
 
 3 2 4
 
 After the Curtain Was Lowered 
 
 But here Mrs. Harrod interfered again. "Peter ! " 
 she called. 
 
 The uttering of the unfamiliar given name created 
 profound surprise in certain minds. 
 
 "Peter!" she repeated. "I won't have you go 
 away like that. I want you to know Mrs. Baron 
 better than you seem to know her. She doesn't 
 mean half she says. Emily, tell him I'm right!" 
 She looked commandingly at Mrs. Baron. It was 
 evident that she had a nature which was not to be 
 subdued by trivial mishaps. 
 
 Mrs. Baron flinched. "Who is Peter?" she de- 
 manded feebly. 
 
 "If you don't know, I advise you to cultivate 
 your son's friends. Do you mean that you don't 
 know Peter Addis? Why, he's been like a son of 
 mine. You ought to have known how fond I and 
 the colonel are of him. I'm surprised you've never 
 met him at our house." 
 
 "I never did," said Mrs. Baron, swallowing with 
 difficulty. 
 
 "Well, for goodness' sake let's go down-stairs 
 please excuse me for suggesting, Emily, in your 
 house and behave ourselves. I suppose we've 
 all been at fault all except that delightful child. 
 I'm going to find her and tell her so ! " 
 
 "It was so funny!" declared the elder Miss 
 McKelvey, appealing tremulously to Mrs. Baron, 
 and patting her on the arm. She thought of laugh- 
 ing, which was, she believed, the easiest thing to 
 do in all sorts of circumstances. 
 
 325
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 Mrs. Harrod's brain was working energetically. 
 She had been reading various faces, and she realized 
 that even yet Mrs. Baron had not spoken to Addis. 
 She drew conclusions. On the way down-stairs 
 she kept Addis close to her. 
 
 "Do you know, Peter," she said, in large, cheer- 
 ful tones, "I think it's downright shabby for you 
 to neglect us as you have been of late. I miss 
 those old evenings so! when you and the colonel 
 used to come in from hunting, and sit down and 
 eat like two famished boys, and bring the atmosphere 
 of outdoors with you. Do you remember how the 
 dogs used to slip into the house, in spite of the 
 colonel's scolding, and put their heads on your 
 knees while you ate supper? Those were the oc- 
 casions that made a home worth having." 
 
 Addis, entirely satisfied with the turn affairs 
 were taking, responded eagerly: "I certainly do 
 remember. I've often wondered if the colonel had 
 Queenie yet. There was a dog for you !" 
 
 "Oh, no! Queenie's been dead over a year. It's 
 Prince and Hector, now Queenie's puppies. The 
 colonel says they're every bit as smart as their 
 mother was. I wish you'd come out soon. On a 
 Sunday, if you'd rather find us alone. We'll sit 
 out under the grape-arbor. You know the grapes 
 are just getting ripe. Those little vines have grown 
 up beautifully. The colonel always has his bottle 
 of what-do-you-call-it out there, and his pipe, and 
 I send the servants away and prepare a little 
 
 lunch " 
 
 326
 
 After the Curtain Was Lowered 
 
 They were in the sitting-room now, too eagerly 
 engaged in their conversation to think of sitting 
 down, and Mrs. Baron was waiting humbly to regain 
 control of the situation. 
 
 Mrs. Harrod was not unmindful of her old friend's 
 discomfort; but she had an idea she was engaged in 
 giving a patient a dose of medicine, and that she 
 ought to be careful that none of it was spilled. 
 
 "If you'll excuse me," said Mrs. Baron, now 
 thoroughly dejected, "I'll look for Bonnie May. 
 I think I ought to have a talk with her." 
 
 She had heard every word that Mrs. Harrod had 
 spoken to Mr. Addis. And she had heard enough. 
 
 She went to Bonnie May's room. She was too 
 confused to realize that Flora accompanied her. 
 But as she stood staring miserably into the empty 
 room she heard Flora's comforting voice. 
 
 "She's probably down-stairs, mother, with 
 with her friends." 
 
 Flora went to the stairway and called. There 
 was no response. She listened, anxiously turning 
 her eyes toward her mother; but there was no 
 sound of voices on the floor below. 
 
 "They wouldn't have remained in the house a 
 minute," declared Mrs. Baron, who was now frankly 
 remorseful. 
 
 "But Bonnie May she may have gone back to 
 talk to Mrs. Shepard," suggested Flora. They 
 could hear Mrs. Harrod's voice, pleasantly master- 
 ful. She had introduced Addis to the McKelvey 
 
 327
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 girls, now that she happened to think of it, and 
 they were slipping eager gusts of laughter and dis- 
 connected phrases into the conversation. 
 
 Mrs. Baron and Flora went down-stairs and ap- 
 pealed to Mrs. Shepard. 
 
 Bonnie May had gone out, Mrs. Shepard said. 
 She had come down-stairs and telephoned something 
 in great haste, and then she had induced her two 
 gentleman friends to go away. An automobile had 
 come quite promptly, and she had gone away in it. 
 
 Mrs. Baron turned away from her daughter and 
 rested her hand against the wall at the foot of the 
 staircase. Her attitude spelled repentance and 
 fear. 
 
 She went up into the child's room, and Flora 
 followed close enough to hear a low, tremulous cry 
 of despair. 
 
 "I wouldn't, mother!" soothed Flora, whose 
 eager voice brought Mrs. Harrod and the others. 
 
 Mrs. Baron was standing beside a little work- 
 table and a chair that were Bonnie May's. Her 
 face was quivering. "I'm a disagreeable old crea- 
 ture," she declared. "I don't deserve to have any 
 happiness." 
 
 One hand fumbled with a handkerchief, which 
 she lifted to her eyes. From the other, slowly re- 
 laxing, a handful of roses and ridiculous little silk 
 butterflies fluttered slowly to the floor. 
 
 "I want you all to leave me please!" she 
 begged. "I'm not fit to be seen." She put forth a 
 
 328
 
 After the Curtain Was Lowered 
 
 hand to Mrs. Harrod. "Do come back again soon/' 
 she begged. "And you, too," she added, extend- 
 ing her hand to the McKelvey girls. And then, as 
 she dabbed her discolored eyes, she concluded with 
 "And you, too!" She glanced aside, but her hand 
 went out to Addis. 
 
 Then she disappeared into her own room, and 
 softly closed the door. 
 
 Flora's eyes were shining as she escorted the 
 party down-stairs. "She's only gone to visit 
 friends," she declared. "She'll be back." 
 
 The McKelvey girls burst from the front door 
 ahead of the others. They were cheerful creatures 
 who were not to be depressed long by the scenes 
 they had just witnessed. 
 
 Flora, standing in the hall to let the others pass, 
 heard them shrieking joyously: "Oh, what a lovely 
 new car you've got, Mrs. Harrod," and then she 
 heard Mrs. Harrod explaining, as she emerged into 
 the sunlight: "A birthday present from the colonel." 
 
 They had all passed out now except Addis, and 
 when Flora opened the door a little wider for him 
 he stood still an instant and looked out. The others 
 were out there inspecting Mrs. Harrod's new car. 
 
 Then he took Flora's hand in his and closed the 
 door firmly and securely. 
 
 It was fully a minute before the door was opened 
 again, and Addis descended the steps alone. 
 
 Mrs. Harrod and the McKelvey girls forgot the 
 new machine immediately. They were all looking 
 
 329
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 at Peter Addis. And they were all thinking pre- 
 cisely the same thing, namely, that they had never 
 in all their lives seen a man who looked more ex- 
 traordinarily handsome and happy. 
 
 330
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 THE MANSION IN SHADOW 
 
 WHEN Bonnie May did not return to the mansion 
 that night the fact was not commented upon by 
 any member of the family. It was not quite re- 
 markable that she should spend the night with the 
 Thornburgs. That was where she had gone, of 
 course. 
 
 It is true that Mrs. Baron was decidedly uncom- 
 fortable. The rupture that had occurred was more 
 serious than any that had preceded it. Possibly 
 she had gone too far. There was the possibility 
 that Bonnie May might nurse a very proper griev- 
 ance and decide that it was pleasanter to live with 
 the Thornburgs than to continue her residence at 
 the mansion. 
 
 In brief, she might refuse to come back. That 
 was Mrs. Baron's fear. It was a fear which hurt 
 the more because she was unwilling to speak of it. 
 
 However, when the next day passed and night 
 came, Baron took no trouble to conceal his anxiety 
 for still Bonnie May had not returned. 
 
 He called up the Thornburgs by telephone. 
 Was Bonnie May there? He asked the question 
 very affably. Yes, came back the reply in an
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 equally affable tone she was there. Would he 
 like to speak to her? 
 
 No, she need not be troubled; he merely wished 
 to be sure she was there. 
 
 Baron believed, without expressing his belief to 
 any one, that it would be a mistake to manifest 
 anxiety about the late guest or probably the 
 temporarily absent guest. So it came about that 
 one day followed another, and Bonnie May did 
 not come back, and the several members of the 
 family pretended that nothing was specially wrong. 
 
 It w'as Mrs. Baron who first thrust aside a wholly 
 transparent pretense. 
 
 "That's the trouble with that Thornburg ar- 
 rangement," she said at dinner one day, apropos 
 of nothing that had been said, but rather of what 
 everybody was thinking. "I don't blame her for 
 being offended; but if the Thornburgs were not 
 making efforts to keep her she'd have been back 
 before now. On the whole, we were really very 
 good to her." 
 
 "Oh, I shouldn't worry," declared Baron briskly. 
 "She'll be back. If she doesn't come before long 
 I'll go over there and and tole her back." 
 
 A second week passed and she had not re- 
 turned. And now her absence was making a dis- 
 tinct difference in the mansion. The dinner and 
 sitting-room conversations became listless; or during 
 the course of them a tendency toward irritability 
 was developed. 
 
 332
 
 The Mansion in Shadow 
 
 One day Mrs. Baron sought her son alone in his 
 attic. Said she: "Do you suppose she's not com- 
 ing back at all?" She looked quite wan and be- 
 reft as she asked the question. 
 
 Baron felt remorseful. "Of course she is," he 
 assured her. "I'm going over to the Thornburgs'. 
 I'm going to see about it." 
 
 Bonnie May was acting foolishly, he thought. 
 The Thornburgs were not keeping faith. Yet it 
 was a difficult matter for him to make a clear case 
 against either Bonnie May or the Thornburgs, and 
 he was by no means comforted by a little event 
 which transpired one morning. 
 
 He encountered the two actors as he was leaving 
 the mansion, and his impulse was to speak to them 
 cordially. But in returning his greeting they mani- 
 fested a well-simulated faint surprise, as if they 
 felt sure Baron had made a mistake. They nodded 
 politely and vaguely and passed on. 
 
 In his mind Baron charged them angrily with 
 being miserable cads, and he was the more angry 
 because they had snubbed him in such an irre- 
 proachable fashion. 
 
 Even Baron, Sr., became impatient over the long 
 absence of Bonnie May. Realizing that his usual 
 practise of watching and listening was not to be 
 effective in the present instance, he leaned back in 
 his chair at dinner one evening and asked blandly: 
 "What's become of the little girl?" 
 
 And Mrs. Baron made a flat failure of her effort 
 
 333
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 to be indifferent. Her hand trembled as she ad- 
 justed her knife and fork on her plate. "Why, I 
 don't know," said she. "You know, she has two 
 homes." But she was afraid to attempt to look 
 anywhere but at her plate. 
 
 Baron was astounded by the utter dejection 
 which his mother tried to conceal. Why, she loved 
 the child really. She was grieving for her. 
 
 And that evening he emerged from the house 
 with much grimness of manner and made for the 
 Thornburgs'. 
 
 The dusk had fallen when he reached the quiet 
 street on which the manager lived. Street-lamps 
 cast their light among the trees at intervals. In 
 the distance a group of children were playing on 
 the pavement. Before the Thornburg home silence 
 reigned, and no one was visible. 
 
 Yet as Baron neared the approach to the house 
 he paused abruptly. He had been mistaken in 
 believing there was no one near. In the heavy 
 shadow of a maple-tree some one was standing a 
 woman. She was gazing at the lower windows of 
 the Thornburg residence. And there was something 
 in her bearing which seemed covert, surreptitious. 
 
 He, too, looked toward those windows. There 
 was nothing there beyond a frankly cheerful in- 
 terior. He could see no one. 
 
 What was the woman looking at? He glanced 
 at her again, and a bough, swaying in the breeze, 
 moved from its place so that the rays from a near- 
 
 334
 
 The Mansion in Shadow 
 
 by lamp shone upon the figure which appeared to 
 be standing on guard. 
 
 She was overdressed, Baron thought. Under 
 an immense velvet hat weighted down with plumes 
 masses of blond hair were visible. Her high, prom- 
 inent cheek-bones were not at all in keeping with 
 the girlish bloom which had been imparted to her 
 cheeks by a too obvious artifice. She had caught 
 up her skirt lightly in one hand, as if the attitude 
 were habitual, and one aggressively elegant shoe 
 was visible. 
 
 He had paused only momentarily. Now he pro- 
 ceeded on his way, passing the woman in the shadow 
 with only half the width of the sidewalk between 
 her and him. 
 
 He had recognized her. She was the woman who 
 had stood hi the theatre that night talking to Thorn- 
 burg who had visited Thornburg in his office. 
 Could she be Miss Barry? Baron wondered. 
 
 A maid let him into the house and drew open a 
 sliding door, revealing the lighted but empty draw- 
 ing-room. She took his card and disappeared. 
 
 He sat for a time, counting the heavy minutes 
 and listening intently for sounds which did not 
 reach him. Then the manager and his wife entered 
 the room, both bending upon him strangely ex- 
 pectant glances. 
 
 Baron arose. "I've taken the liberty " he 
 began, but Thornburg instantly swept all formal- 
 ities aside. 
 
 335
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "That's all right," he said. "Keep your seat." 
 Then, obviously, they waited for something which 
 they expected he had come to say. 
 
 But he was listening for the sound of Bonnie 
 May's voice. He seemed almost absent-minded 
 to the man and woman who were intently regard- 
 ing him. 
 
 Then Thornburg, plainly afraid of offending his 
 guest by a too impulsive or impatient word, fell 
 back upon commonplaces. He concluded that he 
 must wait to hear what Baron had come to say. 
 
 "You've heard about Baggot's good luck?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I think not," replied Baron, not at all cordially. 
 
 "His play. They're getting ready to put it on 
 in Chicago. His people have a theatre there that's 
 not engaged just now. There's to be an elegant 
 production first-class people and everything. Bag- 
 got's gone on to look after the rehearsals. We 
 ought to have it here by the first of the year or 
 earlier, if a number two company is organized." 
 
 "I hadn't heard," said Baron. "I haven't seen 
 Baggot lately." With intention he spoke listlessly. 
 Thornburg wasn't coming to the point, and he didn't 
 intend to be played like a fish. 
 
 An uncomfortable silence fell again, and again 
 Baron found himself listening intently. 
 
 And then he could bear the suspense no longer. 
 He leaned toward Thornburg with animation. 
 "Look here, Thornburg," he said, "I don't believe 
 you're playing fair !" 
 
 336
 
 The Mansion in Shadow 
 
 "You might explain that," responded the man- 
 ager curtly. 
 
 "You know what the agreement was. I don't 
 believe she'd stay away like this unless she'd been 
 restrained." 
 
 Thornburg's only response was a perplexed frown. 
 It was Mrs. Thornburg who first took in the situa- 
 tion. She arose, painfully agitated, and faced 
 Baron. "Do you mean that she isn't at your 
 house?" she demanded. Her voice trailed away to 
 a whisper, for already she read the answer in his 
 eyes. 
 
 Baron sank back in his chair. "She hasn't been 
 for weeks," he replied. 
 
 Thornburg sprang to his feet so energetically 
 that the caller followed his example. "I thought 
 it was you who wasn't playing fair," he said. And 
 then he stared, amazed at the change in Baron's 
 manner. 
 
 The younger man was rushing from the room. 
 There had come to him unbidden the picture of 
 the two actors who had snubbed him in front of 
 his house a recollection of their studied aloofness, 
 their cold, skilful avoidance of an encounter with 
 him. They had taken her ! 
 
 But at the door he paused. "But I telephoned 
 to you," he said, remembering. "You told me she 
 was here." 
 
 "She was here the day you telephoned. She 
 went away the next day." 
 
 Baron frowned. "She went away where?" 
 
 337
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "She went in the machine. Of course we sup- 
 posed " 
 
 Thornburg hurried to the telephone and was 
 speaking to his chauffeur, in a moment. "Oliver? 
 Come to the house a moment, Oliver and hurry." 
 
 He replaced the receiver and hurried back to 
 meet the chauffeur. 
 
 The soldierly appearing young chauffeur was 
 standing at attention before them in a moment. 
 
 "We want to know if you can remember where 
 you took Bonnie May the last time she left the 
 house." 
 
 "Perfectly, sir. She asked me to stop at the 
 Palace Theatre. She said she was expecting to 
 meet a friend there. And she told me I was not to 
 wait that she wouldn't need the car again that 
 afternoon." 
 
 Fifteen minutes later Baron was ringing the bell 
 of the house next to the mansion. He couldri't 
 recall the two actors' names, but he described them. 
 He wished to see them on urgent business. 
 
 But they had paid their bill and gone away. 
 The woman who met Baron at the door was sure 
 they had said something about finishing their en- 
 gagement at the Folly and about leaving the city. 
 
 As Baron turned away from the door it seemed 
 to him that the street had suddenly gone empty- 
 that the whole world was a haunted wilderness. 
 
 338
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 "THE BREAK OF DAY" 
 
 "MR. VICTOR BARON, please." 
 
 An usher with an absurdly severe uniform and 
 a frankly cherubic countenance had pushed aside 
 the hangings and stood looking into the Baron box 
 in the Barrymore Theatre. 
 
 It was the night of the first performance of Bag- 
 got's play, "The Break of Day," in Thornburg's 
 theatre, and the Barons were all present by special 
 and urgent invitation. 
 
 Baron had been studying the aisles full of people, 
 eagerly seeking their seats, and listening to the con- 
 tinuous murmur which arose all over the house. 
 But when he heard his name called he arose and 
 slipped out into the shadows. 
 
 "Mr. Thornburg sends his compliments and asks 
 if you'll be good enough to visit him in his office 
 for a few minutes." Thus the cherubic usher. 
 
 The Barrymore office was off from the lobby, 
 but it commanded a view not only of the street 
 but also of the procession of men and women who 
 passed the ticket-office. 
 
 Thornburg had left the door open, and Baron, 
 approaching, caught sight first of a considerable 
 
 339
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 expanse of dazzling white shirt-front and then of 
 the manager's ruddy, smiling countenance. Evi- 
 dences of prosperity were all about. A procession 
 of motor-cars continued to stop before the theatre 
 to deposit passengers. Throughout the lobby 
 there was the shimmer of costly fabrics worn by 
 women, the flashing of jewels, the rising and falling 
 of gusts of laughter and a chaos of happy speech. 
 And everywhere there was the glitter of onyx panels 
 and pillars, and the warmth of hooded lights, and 
 the indefinable odor of fine raiment and many deli- 
 cate perfumes. 
 
 Thornburg seized Baron's hand and shoved the 
 door to with his foot. Happiness radiated from 
 him. "I've a secret to tell you," he began. "I 
 want you to be one of the first to know." 
 
 "Let's have it!" responded Baron, trying to 
 reflect a little of the manager's gayety. 
 
 "You'll remember my telling you that I had a 
 little daughter by my first wife?" 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 "I've found her again!" 
 
 "Ah, that's fine!" 
 
 "And that isn't all. You're going to see her to- 
 night." 
 
 Baron waited. 
 
 "She's the girl they've been making all that fuss 
 about in Chicago who's been known only as 'The 
 Sprite.' She's got the leading part in 'The Break 
 of Day.' " 
 
 340
 
 'The Break of Day" 
 
 Baron felt his way cautiously. He couldn't 
 mar such superb complacency, such complete hap- 
 piness. "And Mrs. Thornburg " he began halt- 
 ingly. 
 
 " God bless her, it's all right with her. She knows, 
 and she's as happy as I am." 
 
 Baron shrunk back with a sense of utter loss. 
 "Thornburg," he said, "I want you to tell me 
 is the little girl the daughter of of Miss Barry?" 
 
 The manager clapped a heavy hand on Baron's 
 shoulder. "No," he responded. And after a mo- 
 ment's almost pensive reflection he regained his 
 buoyant manner and resumed. "I'd like you to 
 meet her. Between acts, or after the play. You 
 and your family. She's young. I think a little 
 attention, especially motherly attention, will mean 
 a lot to her just now. Of course she mustn't be 
 worried to-night; but suppose we make up a little 
 party, after the performance, and make her feel 
 that she's got friends here?" 
 
 Baron couldn't think of refusing. "I'd have 
 time to pay my respects, at least," he agreed. "And 
 I'll put the case before my mother and the others, 
 just as you have stated it. I think perhaps she'll 
 consent." 
 
 "That's a good fellow. I'll be looking for you," 
 concluded Thornburg, and then he joyously shoved 
 Baron out of the office. 
 
 The footlights were being turned on and the 
 asbestos curtain lifted as Baron returned to his 
 
 34i
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 seat. Then the orchestra began to play, and under 
 cover of the music Thornburg's secret and his in- 
 vitation were passed on to Mrs. Baron and to the 
 others in the box. 
 
 Baron did not catch his mother's response, and 
 she did not repeat it. She had turned to listen to 
 the music. For the moment the orchestra was com- 
 manding a good deal of attention. A cycle of pop- 
 ular melodies was being played, and under the 
 spell of the singing violins the outside world was 
 being made to recede into the distance, while the 
 mimic world became real. 
 
 Men and women forgot that out on the winter 
 streets, only a few yards from them, there was 
 passing that disinterested throng which always 
 passes the door of every theatre; the eager, the list- 
 less, the hopeful, the discouraged, and that sprin- 
 kling of derelicts who have no present drama at all, 
 but who are bearing inevitably on toward the final 
 tragedy. 
 
 The orchestra completed the popular melodies; 
 and after a brief interval the leader rapped his 
 music-rack with his baton to enjoin attention. 
 Then he lifted his hand as if in benediction over a 
 player to his left, and a wood-wind instrument an- 
 nounced a new theme penetratingly, arrestingly. 
 Then the strains of "The Ride of the Valkyries," 
 with their strident and compelling quality, filled 
 the theatre. 
 
 Baron was startled by the touch of a hand on 
 342
 
 'The Break of Day" 
 
 his shoulder. Baggot was leaning toward him. 
 "That's to create the right atmosphere," he whis- 
 pered, nodding toward the orchestra. "It's to put 
 the idea of the supernatural into everybody's 
 mind, you know." He withdrew then. 
 
 Baron thought that was just like Baggot to be 
 explaining and asserting himself, as if he were 
 doing it all. He was glad to be rid of him. He 
 wanted to feel, not to think. Then he realized that 
 the musicians had laid aside their instruments and 
 that the curtain was being slowly lifted. 
 
 Applause greeted the setting. The stage repre- 
 sented the heart of a forest in midsummer "the 
 heart of the summer storms." There was a shad- 
 owy dell, shut in by a wilderness. One giant tree 
 in the foreground rose to invisible heights. At the 
 back a little stream trickled down over a mossy 
 bank, and during its course it formed a silent pool 
 in one silent place, and before this a Psyche in- 
 nocently regarded her face in the mirror of water. 
 
 Then the foliage of the big tree began to be 
 agitated by a rising storm, and the leaves shook 
 as if they were being beaten by descending drops. 
 
 For a moment the summer-shower effect con- 
 tinued. Then from the highest point on the stage 
 visible to the audience a character in the drama 
 appeared the Sprite. She sprang from some un- 
 seen point to the limb of the ancient tree. The 
 limb gave gently, and she sprang to the next limb 
 below. The secure platforms making this form of 
 
 343
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 descent possible were hidden from the audience 
 by heavy foliage. The descent continued until 
 the fairy figure sprang lightly to the stage. 
 
 She was clad in a costume of leaves, the prevail- 
 ing color of which was a deep green, rising to natural 
 tints of yellow. She wore a hood which was cun- 
 ningly fashioned from one big leaf, around which 
 an automobile veil of the gauziest texture was 
 wound so that it concealed her face. 
 
 She began unwinding this veil as she spoke her 
 first lines. 
 
 "Back again where the storms are!" she was 
 saying: "Ah, it is good, after that dreadful calm." 
 
 Baron realized that his mother had lifted her 
 hands to her bosom as if to stifle a cry. For him- 
 self, a thrill shot through his body, and then he 
 leaned forward, rigid, amazed. 
 
 For when the Sprite had removed the last fold 
 of her veil and faced the audience he beheld again, 
 after long waiting and vain search, the lost guest, 
 Bonnie May. 
 
 She wore her hair in a little golden knot at the 
 crown of her head; the waist-line of her dress was 
 just below her arms, and a pair of tiny golden san- 
 dals adorned her feet. When she would have lain 
 the veil aside a screen of leaves parted and a Titan 
 sprang to her side to render service. 
 
 And so the play began. 
 
 But for the moment Baron could not think about 
 the play. He was thinking of Baggot Baggot, 
 
 344
 
 4 The Break of Day" 
 
 who had known all the time. Then again he felt 
 a touch on his arm and, turning, he found himself 
 looking into the playwright's eyes; and he could 
 perceive only the delight of a childish creature, 
 jubilant because he had achieved an innocent sur- 
 prise. 
 
 He tried to respond with a smile and could 
 not. But little by little the play caught his atten- 
 tion. The impression grew upon him that "The 
 Break of Day" was a play of that indefinable 
 quality which goes unfailingly to the heart. But 
 more he realized that Bonnie May was carrying 
 her audience with her with the ease and certainty 
 of an artist. She ceased to be on trial almost imme- 
 diately, and those who watched her began to feel 
 rather than to think, to accept rather than to 
 judge. 
 
 When the first intermission came Baron slipped 
 out of the box and went in search of Baggot, whom 
 he found standing apart in the foyer. 
 
 "I don't have to tell you I'm glad," he began; 
 and then, with furrowed brow, he added, "but 
 surely ..." 
 
 Baggot read his thought accurately. "I wanted 
 to give you the surprise of your life ! You can't 
 help being pleased?" 
 
 "Pleased! Certainly! But we've been dis- 
 tressed about her." 
 
 "Oh distressed! Well, she belongs to the 
 theatre. She always has. / saw that right away ! " 
 
 345
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 "But if we'd only known! I don't suppose we 
 could have stood in the way." 
 
 "But it was her idea at first. She didn't want 
 you to know. I mean when we put the piece on 
 here for a try-out at first." 
 
 "You don't mean " 
 
 "Of course! It was when you were laid up. I 
 thought she'd lay down on me, because you wouldn't 
 see her that night. And then came the Chicago en- 
 gagement. I took my mother along to look after 
 her. I didn't know she hadn't told you anything 
 for a time, and then I left it to her to do what she 
 wanted to do. It was always her idea to take you 
 by surprise. I think she cared more for that than 
 for anything else. Great goodness, man, you don't 
 imagine you've been treated badly?" 
 
 Baron's glance became inscrutable. 
 
 "Why, just think of it!" Baggot went on. 
 "She's drawing the salary of a regular star. And 
 her reputation is made." 
 
 Baron turned away almost curtly. What was 
 to be gained by discussing Bonnie May with a 
 creature who could only think of salary and reputa- 
 tion to whom she was merely a puppet, skilled 
 in repeating lines of some one else's fashioning? 
 
 He entered Thornburg's office. His manner was 
 decidedly lugubrious. 
 
 The manager held out his hand expansively. 
 "You've come to congratulate me," he said. And 
 then he took in Baron's mood. 
 
 346
 
 1 The Break of Day" 
 
 "Oh, I see!" he went on. "There's something 
 that needs explaining. I played fair with you all 
 right, Baron. You see, I was in the dark myself, 
 in some ways." 
 
 He took occasion to light a cigar, which he puffed 
 at absent-mindedly. "Just before Bonnie May 
 showed up here when you got hold of her I 
 learned that her mother had died. It had been 
 kept from me. You see, I was sending the mother 
 money. And when the little one was only a year 
 or so old I got a letter from her mother offering to 
 give her up to me. I've told you what happened 
 then. I I couldn't take her. Then I got another 
 letter from the mother saying she was turning 
 Bonnie May over to her sister for the time being, 
 and that I was to send the remittances to her. 
 That was Miss Barry. 
 
 " I believed the arrangement was only temporary. 
 I didn't understand it, of course. But when several 
 years went by I began to suspect that something 
 was wrong. I didn't like Miss Barry. She was 
 never the woman her sister was. She was well, 
 the brazen sort of woman. I wasn't willing to leave 
 the little daughter with her any longer. I wrote 
 to her and told her she might send Bonnie May 
 to me, if she cared to, but that there weren't to be 
 any more remittances. I thought that would fetch 
 her. I meant to put the little daughter in a home 
 or a school somewhere. And then they blew in 
 here, and you got her and your getting her was 
 just the thing I wanted." 
 
 347
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 An incandescent light on the manager's desk 
 winked once and again. "The curtain's going up," 
 he informed Baron, and the latter hurried back to 
 his seat. 
 
 As he entered the box a flood of cold air from the 
 stage swept over the audience. And when his 
 mother shivered slightly he observed that Peter 
 Addis, sitting immediately behind her, quietly 
 leaned forward and lifted a quilted satin wrap 
 from a chair, placing it deftly about her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 She yielded with a nestling movement and with 
 a backward flash of grateful recognition which 
 told a story of their own. 
 
 The audience was stilled again as the second 
 setting was revealed "the home of the autumn 
 leaves." Here was a masterpiece of designing and 
 painting, Baron realized. A house was being con- 
 structed for the Sprite. Much disputation arose. 
 The sort of talk which precedes the planning of a 
 home was heard save that the terms were 
 grotesquely altered. Then the action was com- 
 plicated by the arrival of a band of vikings, driven 
 ashore by a gale. 
 
 And then Baron, too, forgot that Bonnie May 
 was a human being, as Baggot seemed to have 
 done, and was lost in the ingenious whimsicality 
 of the play. 
 
 It was after the third act in which there was a 
 picture of cruel winter, with all the characters in 
 
 348
 
 "The Break of Day 1 ' 
 
 the play combating a common foe in the form of 
 the withering cold that the Sprite won the heart- 
 iest approval. 
 
 Thunders of applause swept over the house; 
 and when the effect of thunder had passed there 
 was a steady demonstration resembling the heavy 
 fall of rain. Again and again Bonnie May bowed 
 as the curtain was lifted and lowered, and again 
 and again the applause took on new vigor and 
 earnestness. And then she stepped a little forward 
 and nodded lightly toward some one back in the 
 wings, and the curtain remained up. 
 
 She made a little speech. It seemed she had a 
 special voice for that, too. It was lower, but elab- 
 orately distinct. The very unconventionality of it 
 afforded a different kind of delight. Her manner 
 was one of mild disparagement of an inartistic 
 custom. She bowed herself from the stage with 
 infinite graciousness. 
 
 She was a tremendous success. 
 
 It was only after the curtain went down for the 
 last time that Thornburg appeared at the Baron 
 box. The scene had been called "Spring and the 
 Fairies," and it had put the pleasantest of thoughts 
 into the minds of the audience, which was now 
 noisily dispersing. 
 
 "I hope you're all coming back on the stage for 
 a minute," said the manager. 
 
 He was dismayed by Mrs. Baron's impetuosity. 
 She was too eager to remain an instant talking to 
 
 349
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 any one. She could scarcely wait to be escorted 
 back to the stage and yet she had no idea how to 
 reach that unknown territory undirected. Her 
 bearing was really quite pathetic. 
 
 And in a moment the entire party had passed 
 through a doorway quite close to the box, and were 
 casting about in that region where the wings touch 
 the dressing-rooms. The players were hurrying to 
 and fro, and one man, carrying a large waxen nose 
 and a pair of enormous ears he had been a gnome 
 in the play paused and looked curiously at the 
 very circumspect intruders. 
 
 Somehow it did not seem at all remarkable to 
 Baron, as it might have done, that he presently 
 found himself confronting Miss Barry. It was 
 plain that she had been waiting to enter the child's 
 dressing-room, and at the approach of Thornburg 
 she brightened rather by intention, perhaps, than 
 spontaneously. 
 
 "Oh, how fortunate!" she began. "You'll be 
 able to help me, of course. I want to see the new 
 star ! I'd lost track of her." Her practised smile 
 and shifting eyes played upon Thornburg menac- 
 ingly, inquiringly, appealingly. "I want to begin 
 planning for her again. When her engagement 
 here is over I mean to take her with me to the 
 coast. She's reached an age now when I can be of 
 real help to her. Isn't it wonderful the way she 
 has developed?" 
 
 Thornburg had paused to hear her to the end. 
 350
 
 4 The Break of Day'' 
 
 He realized that there was a pitiful lack of as- 
 surance of conviction in her manner. 
 
 When she had finished he smiled tolerantly, yet 
 with unmistakable significance. "No, Miss Barry," 
 he said, replying to her thought rather than her 
 words. "That's all ended now. When Bonnie 
 May has finished her work here I shall see that she 
 has a home in her father's house." 
 
 The party moved into the dressing-room, where 
 Bonnie May had been robbed of her fairy trappings 
 and put into a modest frock. Her hair, released 
 from its little knot, was falling about her shoulders 
 and was being combed by a maid. 
 
 But she escaped from the maid and for the 
 moment from all the life which the dressing-room 
 implied when she saw Mrs. Baron standing in 
 her doorway. 
 
 She had put her arms about the trembling old 
 lady's neck, and for the moment they were both 
 silent. And then Mrs. Baron drew back and stood 
 a moment, her hands framing Bonnie May's face. 
 
 "You do forget that I was a disagreeable old 
 woman ! " she murmured. 
 
 "Oh, that!" came the warm response; "you 
 know you forget just little slips when you are happy 
 in your work. And I couldn't have remembered 
 such a little thing anyway, when you'd been so 
 lovely to me!" 
 
 She took Mrs. Baron's hand in both her own 
 and clung to it; and lifted it to her face and laid
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 her cheek against it. "If you only knew how I've 
 thought of you of all of you and longed for you ! 
 And how much I wanted you to see me at work, so 
 you would would know me better! You know 
 just talking doesn't prove anything. I wanted so 
 much to have you know that I was an an artist !" 
 
 In the theatre the orchestra was still playing 
 while the people filed out. In the distance there 
 was the mufHed sound of the procession of motor- 
 cars starting and of announcers shouting numbers 
 above the din. 
 
 It was Flora's turn to press forward and take 
 her seat beside Bonnie May now; and while Mrs. 
 Baron stood aside, smiling quite happily, the man- 
 ager spoke to her as if he were merely continuing 
 a conversation which had been interrupted. 
 
 "Yes, I'm particularly anxious to have you go 
 on with with the lessons, you know. Not just 
 the books and music, you understand, but well, 
 say a general influence. You know, she's tremen- 
 dously fond of all of you. I mean to get her off 
 the stage as soon as the run here is finished. It's 
 time for her to have a little real life. And I'd like 
 things to go on about as they were I mean, having 
 her in your house, or mine, just as she feels about 
 it. You were the first to give her a mother's atten- 
 tion. I'd be grateful if you felt you could go on 
 with that." 
 
 Mrs. Baron tried to answer this quite punctil- 
 iously, but she had to turn aside to hide her eyes, 
 
 352
 
 She had put her arms about the trembling old lady's neck, 
 and for the moment they were both silent.
 
 4 The Break of Day" 
 
 and when she spoke her words were a surprise to 
 her. 
 
 "I think you're a good man," she said. And she 
 did not trust herself to say anything more. She 
 was gazing at Bonnie May again, and noticing how 
 the strange little creature was clinging to Flora's 
 hand with both her own, and telling with her 
 eyes illustrating the story gloriously of the great 
 events which had transpired since that day when 
 the mansion went back to its normal condition of 
 loneliness and silence. 
 
 Baron was observing her, too. He had found 
 a chair quite outside the centre of the picture, and 
 he was trying to assume the pose of a casual on- 
 looker. 
 
 But Bonnie May's eyes met his after a time and 
 something of the radiance passed from her face. 
 She turned away from Flora and stood apart a 
 little and clasped her hands up nearly beneath her 
 chin, and her whole being seemed suddenly trem- 
 ulous. She was thinking of the home that had 
 been made for her, and of how it was Baron who 
 had opened its door. The others had been lovely, 
 but the ready faith and the willingness to stand 
 the brunt these had been his. 
 
 She moved forward almost shyly until she stood 
 before him, and then her hands went out to him. 
 
 "I must offer my congratulations, too!" he said. 
 
 But she ignored that. "Do you remember a 
 time when we talked together about some words 
 
 353
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 that we thought were beautiful up in the attic ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "And you told me you didn't think much of 
 'aunt' or 'uncle/ but that you liked 'father' 
 and " 
 
 "Yes, that was the time." 
 
 "I remember perfectly." 
 
 "You know, there's another word I've thought 
 of since then that I've wished I could could have 
 for my own." 
 
 He seemed to be casting about for that other 
 word. 
 
 "It's a lovely word, too. . . ." She drew closer 
 to him. "Help me!" she pleaded, and when he 
 looked into her eyes, a bit startled, she whispered 
 "Brother . . . brother!" Her hand was on his 
 shoulder, and then it slipped its way to his neck. 
 
 "Ah, that is a good word!" said Baron. And 
 then the tempest of affection broke, and she had 
 her arms about his neck. 
 
 He had no idea she was so strong. She was chok- 
 ing him a bit. But no, it wasn't really the strength 
 of her arms, after all, he realized. 
 
 And then, because his mother and Flora were 
 watching, and because well, because he was Baron, 
 he straightened up and got possession of her hands 
 again. He patted them lightly. 
 
 "It is a good word," he repeated. "It's one that 
 has come to have a much bigger meaning for me 
 since I knew you." 
 
 354
 
 4 The Break of Day" 
 
 "And you won't think it's got anything to do 
 with that silly old joke . . . ?" 
 
 He was really perplexed. 
 
 "You know, when they say: Til be a sister to 
 you ! ' : She was bubbling over with the old merri- 
 ment now. "Just to make you keep at a distance, 
 you know." 
 
 "Oh no, I'll be sure it hasn't anything to do 
 with that." 
 
 He regarded her almost dreamily as she turned 
 again to his mother and Flora. He was thinking 
 of the amazing buoyancy, of the disconcerting, 
 almost estranging humor which lay always just 
 beneath the surface; of her fine courage; of the 
 ineradicable instinct which made everything a sort 
 of play. They would be hers always. Or would 
 there come a time when she would lose them? He 
 wondered. 
 
 "There is our number !" interrupted Peter Addis, 
 who had been listening to the voice of the an- 
 nouncers. He had brought the party to the thea- 
 tre in his own car. 
 
 There was a reluctant movement toward the 
 theatre. 
 
 "... Oh, a matinee performance now and then, 
 if she likes," Thornburg was explaining to Baron. 
 '"'But for a few years, at least, that will be all. 
 She's going to have the things she's had to go with- 
 out all her life." 
 
 They followed the line of the wall around toward 
 
 355
 
 Bonnie May 
 
 the front exit. The orchestra had quit playing. 
 The time had come to extinguish the lights. 
 
 But after the others had gone Baron stood a 
 moment alone. He looked thoughtfully toward 
 the upper right-hand box. 
 
 "I thought she was lost that day," he mused. 
 "I thought I was rescuing her. And now I know 
 she wasn't really lost then. Not until afterward. 
 And now she has found her home again." 
 
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