e's an artist, you know, and I'm
posing for another of mamma's heroines. Babette got me up at daylight to
pose for the last picture and then--I skipped and left her to manage the
breakfast."

Her laugh as she said this established her identity beyond question. For
a moment the thought of the packages of worthless wrapping-paper he had
found in his suitcase chilled his happiness in finding her again; but it
had not been her fault; the unbroken seals fully established her
innocence.

"You understand, of course, that it's a dark secret that mother writes.
She had scribbled for her own amusement all her life, and published 'The
Madness of May' just to see what the public would do to it."

"I understand that it's immensely amusing," remarked Deering, thrilling
as she turned toward him.

"Oh, you haven't read it!" she cried. "Mamma, Mr. Tuck hasn't read your
book."

"My young friend is just beginning his education," interposed Hood. "I
unhesitatingly pronounce 'The Madness of May' a classic--something the
tired world has been awaiting for years!"

"Right!" cried Pantaloon. "You are quite right, sir. 'The Madness of May'
isn't a novel, it's a text-book on happiness!"

"Truer words were never spoken!" exclaimed Hood with enthusiasm.

"Do you know," began Deering, when it was possible to address Pierrette
directly again, "I don't believe I was built for this life. I find myself
checking off the alphabet on my fingers every few minutes to see if I
have gone plumb mad!"

She bent toward him with entreaty in her eyes. He observed that they were
brown eyes! In the starlight he had been unable to judge of their color,
and he was chagrined that he hadn't guessed at that first interview that
she was a brown-eyed girl. Only a brown-eyed girl would have hung a moon
in a tree! Brown eyes are immensely eloquent of all manner of pleasant
things--such as mischief, mirth, and dreams. Moreover, brown eyes are so
highly sensitized that they receive and transmit messages in the most
secret of ciphers, and yet always with circumspection. He was perfectly
satisfied with Pierrette's eyes and relieved that they were not blue, for
blue eyes may be cold, and the finest of black eyes are sometimes dull.
Gray eyes alone--misty, fathomless gray eyes--share imagination with
brown ones. But neither a blue-eyed nor a black-eyed nor a gray-eyed
Pierrette was to be thought of. Pierrette's eyes were brown, as he should
have known, and what she was s