faces when they watched Nonie?"

"I could only see you! I feel as though fairies _had_ been here!"

"Peter--_you're_ silly," rebuked Nancy. "Shall I give you one of my
fairy gifts? The flower--or the leaf----"

"I want the ring," he answered with provoking gravity.

"There--you shall have it! Now you will love everybody and everybody
will love you," Nancy laughed, placing the dandelion stem in his
outstretched hand.

She was tremendously glad that at that moment Theodore Hoffman joined
them--Peter Hyde had so seriously patted the pocket into which he had
placed the ring--as though he really believed it could work its magic!
She turned eagerly to the master but he spoke first.

"Tell me--I am haunted by a thousand memories--who in the world is this
strange little creature?"

Nancy told the master of Nonie, of that first night in the orchard, of
her strange gift of imagination, of her "pretend" games by which she
had persistently gilded over the very rough spots of a sordid, lonely
life.

"She is always reaching out for the spirit of the things about her and
trying to make each her own!"

"She is like a flower that has grown up among weeds," muttered the
great man, his thoughts far away, a frown wrinkling his brow.
"Sometimes, it is in such places that we find the greatest gifts. I
wonder," he gave a little start, as though bringing himself, with an
effort, back to the garden. "It's always been a hobby of mine, hunting
around in queer places for something I can give to my Art. Perhaps you
don't understand me, but, wherever I am, I am watching, watching all
the time, for a promise of talent that, if properly cultivated and
trained, will give something to the greatest of the Arts--dramatic
expression."

Thrilled, Nancy sat tongue-tied, afraid to speak. He went on: "I said
I was haunted--years ago I ran across another child, not unlike this
one. She gave rare promise of genius. I put her in my school. I had
her there several years. I looked for a great deal from her. But--she
failed me."

"Did she--die?"

The master laughed. "No, she loved a man more than she did her art. I
was jealous--unreasonable. I let her go away--heard nothing more of
her. I suppose she married. She's probably fat now, with a half-dozen
squalling babies. Yes, I was jealous--I wanted to give her to my art,
soul and body--as a fanatic would make his offering to his gods. And
this child has made me think of her again.