to have that picture," said Frances, with a sigh. "Emma,
do you know what a Bohemian is?"

"I know what the 'Bohemian Girl' is; it is music."

"It can't be that, for mother said father wouldn't like it if I turned
into one."

As Frances was unbuttoning her shoes that night she suddenly exclaimed,
"Why, it is the little girl in the golden doorway!

"What is?" her mother asked.

"I mean that is what the portrait reminded me of. It has just come into
my head. Isn't it funny?"

"Almost any portrait of a little girl might suggest it, I should think,"
said Mrs. Morrison.

"I wish you could see her, mother. Do you think I can go again with Emma
sometime? I do want to see her once more."

"I don't know, dear."

"Mother, is it being a Bohemian to want to go?"

Mrs. Morrison laughed. "Not exactly, Wink. It is difficult to explain,
but a Bohemian is perhaps a person who habitually does what is not 'the
thing.'"

"That must be fun," said Frances.

There was silence for a long time, then she asked, "Mother, aren't you
glad a certain person is abroad?"

Mrs. Morrison looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?" she said.

"Oh, I was just thinking!"

"But what put it into your head to think of a certain person?"

"Well, the girl in the golden doorway always makes me think of him; and
you know, mother, father said he didn't mind leaving us here because he
was abroad."

"You have been drawing on your imagination, Wink, you can't have
understood father; but now you must go to bed and not talk any more."

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

THE STORY OF THE BRIDGE.

An atmosphere of great sociability pervaded the quaint room that the
Spectacle Man called his study, when on Friday evening, two weeks after
the candy pulling, his expected guests arrived.

He had closed his shop an hour earlier than usual, and spent the time in
getting out certain treasures of china and silver, and placing them
where they could be seen to the best advantage. When the lamps were
lighted, the hearth brushed, and the big Japanese bowl heaped up with
apples and grapes, he paused and looked around him with satisfaction.

He was reflecting how pleasant it was to be giving a party, when the
hall door opened to let in Peterkin and closed again in what might have
seemed a mysterious manner but for the sound of stifled laughter on the
outside. On the inside Peterkin stood looking cross-eyed in a vain
endeavor to see the frill that adorned his neck.