t dappled pony; pranced, reared, kicked up her wet
feet, shied wildly--

Then, both sticks cast aside, she began to dance; at first with
deliberation, holding out the gingham dress at either side, and mincing
through the steps taught by Monsieur Tellegen. But gradually she forsook
rhythm and measure; capering ceased; the dance became fast and furious.
Hallooing, she raced hither and thither among the trees, tossing her
arms, darting down at the flowers and flinging them high, swishing her
yellow hair from side to side, leaping exultantly toward the lights,
pivoting--

Suddenly she found that she was dancing to music!--not the laboriously
strummed notes of a piano, such as were beaten out by the firm-striding
Miss Brown; not the clamorous, deafening, tuneless efforts of an
orchestra. This was _real_ music--inviting, inspiring, heavenly!

It was a hand-organ!

She halted, spell-bound. He was playing, turning the crank with a swift,
steady motion, his ragged hat tipped to one side.

Now she understood the box hanging from its strap. She danced up to him,
and held out a hand. "Why, you're the _hand-organ_ man!" she panted
breathlessly. "And you got here as quick as I did!"

He stopped playing, "I'm the hand-organ man when I'm in town," he
corrected. "Here, in the Land of the Lights, I'm the Man-Who-Makes-Faces."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces! She looked at him with new interest. "Why, of
course you are," she acknowledged. "Sometimes you make 'em in town."

"Sometimes in town I make an ugly one," he retorted. Whereupon he
shouldered the hand-organ, grasped the curved knife, and started away.
As he walked, he called aloud to every side, like a huckster.

"Here's where you get your ears sharpened!" he sang. "_Ears_ sharpened!
_Eyes_ sharpened! Edges taken off of tongues!"

She trotted beside him, head up, gray eyes wide, lips parted. He was
ascending a gentle rise toward a low hill not far distant. As she drew
away from the stream and the glade, she heard, from somewhere far
behind, a shrill voice. It called a name--a name strangely familiar. She
paid no heed.

At the summit of the little hill, under some trees, he paused, and waved
the kidnaper knife in circles. "_Ears_ to sharpen!" he shrilled again.
"_Eyes_ to sharpen! Edges taken off of tongues!"

She smiled up at him engagingly, noting how his gray hair hung over the
back of his collar. She felt no fear of him whatever. "I think you're
nice, Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Fac