for instance, or an ugly mouth. A sweet tooth
should go, you understand, only with a sweet face."

"Is it a sweet tooth that makes a face sweet?" she inquired.

"Quite so." He held up the nose to examine it critically.

She watched him in silence for a while. Then, "You don't mind telling
me who's going to have that?" she ventured, pointing a finger at the
nose.

"This? Oh, this is for a certain little boy's father."

She blinked thoughtfully. "Is his name," she began--and stopped.

"His father--the unfortunate man--has been keeping his own nose to the
grindstone pretty steadily of late, and so--"

"I can't just remember the name I'm thinking about," said Gwendolyn,
troubled.

He glanced up. And the round, bright eyes were grave as he searched her
face. "I wonder," he said in a low voice, "if you know who _you_ are."

She smiled. "Well, I've been acquainted with myself for seven years,"
she declared.

"But do you know who you _are?_" (The round eyes were full of tears!)

She felt uncertain. "I did just a little while ago. Now, though--"

He reached to take her hand. "Shall I tell you?"

"Yes,"--in a whisper.

"You're the Poor Little Rich Girl." He patted her hand. "The Poor Little
Rich Girl!"

She nodded bravely, and stood looking up at him. He was old and unkempt.
Out at elbows, too. And the bottoms of his baggy trousers hung in dusty
shreds. But his lined and bearded face was kind! "I--I haven't been so
very happy," she said falteringly.

He shook his head. "Not happy! And no step-relations, either!"

"Well,--er," (she felt uncertain) "there are some step-houses just
across the street."

"Not the same thing," he declared shortly. "But, _hm! hm!_"--as he
coughed, he waved an arm cheerily. "Things will improve. Oh, yes. All
you've got to do is follow my advice."

The gray eyes were wistful, and questioning.

"You've got a lot to do," he went on. "Oh, a _great_ deal. For
instance"--here he paused, running his fingers through his long
hair--"there's Miss Royle, and Thomas, and Jane."

She was silent for a long moment. Miss Royle! Thomas! Jane! In the joy
of being out of doors, of having real dirt to scuff in, and high grass
through which to brush; of having a plaid gingham with a pocket, and
all the fizzing drink she wished; of being able to dabble and wade; and
of having good, squashy soda-mud for pies--in the joy at all this she
had utterly forgotten them!

She looked up at the tapered trees