oung man in a fur
coat who topped her by a head. He had gray eyes and a small upturned
mustache--Jean uttered an exclamation.

"What's the matter?" her father asked.

"Oh, nothing--" she watched the two ascend the stairs. "I thought for
a moment that I knew him."

The great door opened and closed, the rosy wrap and the fur coat were
swallowed up.

"Of course it couldn't be," Jean decided as she and her father
continued on their wonderful way.

"Couldn't be what, my dear?"

"The same man, Daddy," Jean said, and changed the subject.

CHAPTER II

CINDERELLA

The next time that Jean saw Him was at the theater. She and her father
went to worship at the shrine of Maude Adams, and He was there.

It was Jean's yearly treat. There were, of course, other plays. But
since her very-small-girlhood, there had been always that red-letter
night when "The Little Minister" or "Hop-o'-my-Thumb" or "Peter Pan"
had transported her straight from the real world to that whimsical,
tender, delightful realm where Barrie reigns.

Peter Pan had been the climax!

_Do you believe in fairies?_

Of course she did. And so did Miss Emily. And so did her father,
except in certain backsliding moments. But Hilda didn't.

Tonight it was "A Kiss for Cinderella"--! The very name had been
enough to set Jean's cheeks burning and her eyes shining.

"Do you remember, Daddy, that I was six when I first saw her, and she's
as young as ever?"

"Younger." It was at such moments that the Doctor was at his best.
The youth in him matched the youth in his daughter. They were boy and
girl together.

And now the girl on the stage, whose undying youth made her the
interpreter of dreams for those who would never grow up, wove her magic
spells of tears and laughter.

It was not until the first satisfying act was over that Jean drew a
long breath and looked about her.

The house was packed. The old theater with its painted curtain had
nothing modern to recommend it. But to Jean's mind it could not have
been improved. She wanted not one thing changed. For years and years
she had sat in her favorite seat in the seventh row of the parquet and
had loved the golden proscenium arch, the painted goddesses, the red
velvet hangings--she had thrilled to the voice and gesture of the
artists who had played to please her. There had been "Wang" and "The
Wizard of Oz"; "Robin Hood"; the tall comedian of "Casey at the Bat";
the short comedian wh